Việt and Nam is an elliptical and delicate tale that pairs queer longing with a country’s post-war trauma. Writer and director Truong Minh Quy’s third feature film crafts a distant but soulful Vietnamese romance about two young boys that is equally bleak and contemplative.
Inspired by the tragedy in 2019, where 39 Vietnamese migrants were found dead inside the trailer of an articulated refrigerator lorry in Essex; the narrative follows two plotlines that centre around migration, longing, and a search for a loved one lost during the Vietnam War.
It mixes the feeling and approach of Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s slow cinema, a sprinkle of magic realism, and a stunning, dreamy visual palette shot on 16mm. The film’s hypnotic yet patience-testing imagination reckons with the ghosts of the past, the issues of the present, and the aching wounds of a country that will struggle to heal long into the future.
Việt (Dao Duy Bao Dinh) and Nam (Pham Thanh Hai) are two coal miners in a secret relationship. They are both without fathers and yearn for a better future. They hide their love but find fleeting moments to connect – a grasp of a hand under a table, a hug out on a distant border, a loving glance into each other’s eyes. A joke is even made when they will get married. Their love is strong, but Nam plans to smuggle himself into Europe, separating him from Việt.
Before he leaves, Nam’s mother, Hoa (Thi Nga Nguyen), has been having dreams about her husband – a soldier of the North Vietnamese army whose body was never found. His spirit has been calling out to Hoa on a quest to find his body. As Nam also wants to connect with the father he never got to know (and is thinking about even in intimate moments with Việt), the two boys, Hoa and veteran Ba (Viet Tung Le) embark on a mournful adventure. The young want to spend time together before embracing the future, and the old want to find the remains that help them be at peace with the past.
‘Việt and Nam’ blossoms when it embraces its more surreal moments. An example is the opening scene—the two boys shrouded in darkness at the bottom of the mine. It’s 2001 – another miner mentions that the Twin Towers have just fallen. They are 100 metres under the ground, deeper than their foundations. Small light particles glitter in the dark as two young lovers lie naked, surrounded by a cocoon of coal. Their bodies are coiled into one, bathed in a black sediment used above to capitalise and pollute. The specks of light in the black backdrop are reflective of an entire universe – queer love that transcends the bottoms of the earth.
Other beautiful moments include Ba recounting a harrowing story to Hoa about his time at war, a trip to the Ba Chúc Memorial, and a psychic on another burial quest finding remains turned into black dirt—a moment of spirituality between the land, its history, and the people. War impacts not just the people but also the land. Việt and Nam are metonymical symbols for Vietnam. Can the two ever become one again? Comparisons to last year’s Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell by Vietnamese auteur Pham Thien An come to mind for its lyrical and spiritual style.
The main issue with Việt and Nam is the film’s bifurcated attention. When the title card appears 55 minutes into the movie, the focus shifts from the romance so that it can provide more time for Hoa and Ba’s quest. While it is still a vital part of the film, exploring the women left behind in war, the veterans who still hear bombs hauntingly ringing through their ears – Việt and Nam become supporting, distant figures within their own movie.
Việt and Nam has been fighting for its identity in and outside the film as it attempts to find distribution. The Vietnam Cinema Department has stated that the film presents “a gloomy, deadlocked, and negative view” of Vietnam, a sentiment that has left the film banned within the country. Despite being somewhat more accepting of LGBTQ+ cinema recently, Vietnam-based production company Lagi lost its credit as a co-producer, so the film could premiere at Cannes. As a work wrestling with the history of a fractured country, it is both sad and ironic to see the film not given a release in Vietnam.
Việt and Nam will reward those who embrace its sometimes-overlong wavelengths. It is a beautifully realised film full of reflective imagery and poetic grandeur, juxtaposing the intimate with the geographical. The spirits of queer people, war veterans, migrants and those left behind linger and haunt.
