They are Việt and Nam, though neither name is spoken aloud. They are also miners, toiling in the dark near Vietnam’s coastline, a darkness in which their deep yet fragile connection manifests itself physically, alongside more discreet displays of affection above ground. The romance between the two men—by turns explicit and guarded—and Nam’s impending migration to an unspecified destination in search of a better life, forms the nucleus of Trương Minh Quý’s tender, elliptical, and spellbinding Việt and Nam (2024). The debut narrative feature by the emerging Brussels-based, Vietnamese filmmaker and artist follows a number of acclaimed short films, including Les Attendants (2021), which also explored the unexpected relationship between mining, bodies, and history, and 2019’s ambitious The Tree House, a feature hybrid that recast documentary footage through a speculative, science-fiction framework.

Set in 2001, Việt and Nam unfolds in an era marked by proliferating international migration, and one in which the scars of various national traumas remain present: the American war in Vietnam (1955–75) as well as the nation’s lesser-remembered conflict with Cambodia’s Khmer Rouge during the late 1970s. While too young to have lived through these tragic events, the central protagonists are surrounded by others for whom such painful memories remain. These include Nam’s mother, whose husband died on the battlefield and whose spirit has begun to visit her in her dreams, as well as that of a former veteran he had fought alongside.

Việt and Nam is not only Trương’s first feature, but a film that explicitly foregrounds narrative and storytelling as core themes and motifs. Whether the quest for closure that the loved ones of former combatants undertake with the aid of psychics; a visit to the Ba Chúc Crypt, a memorial that attempts to historicize the war with the Khmer Rouge; or Nam’s immanent departure, the film examines the structure of past narratives as well as the ways in which characters imagine or determine their own. Similarly, the film is an explicit attempt by Trương to grapple with established discourses, both limited and limiting, forced upon Vietnam by the West. It’s a film that confronts the American war in Vietnam, but on its own terms, just as it openly explores queer love and painful histories of migration.

Following Việt and Nam’s world premiere in the Un Certain Regard section at the Cannes film festival in May, Jesse Cumming spoke to Trương about the way in which memory and landscape connect, the sensorial nature of his work, the unwillingness in Vietnamese culture to speak directly about taboo subjects, and the news that his film had been banned in Vietnam.

I thought we could start by discussing the setting of the film, both in terms of its physical location in Vietnam and the fact that the narrative takes place in the early 2000s.

Setting the film in the past is intended to be abstract and ambiguous, even if there are references to contemporary events. It never tries to pinpoint this era visually and we chose to shoot in locations that looked the same now as they did back then. I don't know if you would call it time travel or if, in fact, there’s no need to care about time. It’s outside of time. Any Vietnamese person would recognize that certain shots reflect the present day, like the motorbikes and the helmets on the street that couldn’t possibly be from 2001. But I don't mind. For me the theme itself is abstract, and everything can exist at the same time. 

In terms of setting the film in 2001, it was important that the characters were still young, and that it wasn’t long after the war. I also wanted to reference the 9/11 attacks in New York as that is something from my childhood. I remember how strange it felt being 11 years old and people talking about the event. Everything suddenly connected: New York and my hometown. It also has something to do with the idea of talking about different wars, including, of course, the Vietnam War. In the film the characters visit a museum, where we [the audience] encounter the war between Vietnam and the Khmer Rouge. But the film also suggests that another war (in Iraq) was, at the time, right around the corner. 

I’m glad you mentioned this as it’s a film that very much gestures backwards and forwards at the same time. On the one hand we have these discussions of past wars, memories, or traumas, while on the other we’re part of discussions about migration, of future ambitions, and, as you mention, suggestions of wars to come. I also think about the house Việt visits that is full of unpacked boxes, suggesting a future that is speculative, and not yet entirely realized. Can you talk about how these temporal forces operate on the present tense of the film?

One element is that of reenactment, which we see several times, such as when Nam reenacts his father’s death in the forest. At the same time, we also see rehearsals, and different ways in which the characters prepare for the future. But all of it takes place in the present. For me there is less of a tension as much as there is a freedom. I don’t see any line, and this is just how it should be. It may be confusing for audiences who are used to linear time, but this film, even in the structure of the edit, remains very ambiguous. 

It’s interesting what you say about not seeing the lines, because in some ways this seems to be a film that is very much concerned with borders, frontiers, and other forms of separation, however blurred. Whether a formerly divided Vietnam, or even Việt and Nam as a title, but also national borders, the lines between waking and dreaming, the separation of couples, and repeated references to “the other side.” Can you talk about why you were interested in this theme?

I think it relates to the story. There are boundaries and borders, but they remain unnamed. They’re not clear. It’s like the moment in the film when one of the characters crosses the border into Laos or Cambodia, but the border is in fact just the frame of the image. We don’t really know which country Nam is going to, we just know that it’s somewhere on the left of the map. I think that the boundaries here aren’t something one can define, but rather they coexist. Like the underground and the sea, or the forest and the mountain. The boundary for me is more about the limitations of the frame, and how I can use that limitation to evoke imagination rather than showing something explicitly.

Your film engages repeatedly in the senses. You have characters speaking about spending so much time in the dark, others that they are losing their eyesight, while at the same time there is space given to touch. The sensorial nature of the film almost feels heightened.

This film has a lot of different senses, even a feeling of claustrophobia with the touching in the coal mines, and the kissing. Eating and drinking are also important, like eating earwax, drinking blood, or eating a frog. It’s interesting as well to have characters talk about eating, as it materializes something that can be very abstract. Like the veteran, for example, who can’t eat the frog meat. It seems like a trivial thing but it concretizes his internal trauma; it becomes physical, a part of his body. It’s also about touch, and the drinking between the two main characters, who exchange bodily fluids. Furthermore, they look identical in some scenes. They are almost a mirror image [of each other]. It creates a sense of brotherhood, of twins, of two bodies that come from one. 

To this end I also wanted to talk to you about the idea of environment, and the ways in which the characters are wedded to nature—be it the lost father’s body buried in the forest or the miners who are told that their bodies are full of dust. 

As a location, a mine carries an awareness of the environment because the coal industry has created a place that is dark and polluted. Even the river is black. In a way the coal mine also suggests something from a different era, something from the past that, in this place, still exists. We also see different kinds of landscapes, like forests and mountains. They all carry memories, particularly for Nam, the character waiting and wanting to leave. For him, each landscape he sees might be for the last time. There is also a kind of trauma in some of the landscapes, like a field full of bomb craters. Even banal locations, such as the tapioca field, hold meaning as there could be the bodies of soldiers buried beneath the soil. So I wanted to approach nature with a sense of melancholy, as if it is being seen through the eyes of somebody who is close to these places. Even if at the same time it carries a sense of horror, whether due to the effects of industrial pollution or the remnants of the past hidden in the earth.

Can you speak a bit about the visual language and style of the film, particularly the use of 16mm film?

Việt and Nam is my fourth film shot on Super 16mm film. The first was The Tree House (2019). The decision to use film stemmed from both curiosity and an adventurous spirit. Vietnam’s lack of analogue film infrastructure presented significant logistical challenges. In fact, on Việt and Nam some of the final rolls were accidentally X-rayed, creating an effect some viewers might notice. There is something inherently timeless in images captured on film, especially on 16mm. And this timeless feeling is what I would like to visualize in the film. Paradoxically, shooting on 16mm liberated me. It freed me from constantly checking the playback monitor. I had to trust my eyes, my fragile sensations, and of course, the cinematographer. And most of the time, the rushes [raw test prints] turned out to be more beautiful than what was in my memory.

Could you say a word about your casting choices and working with the two leads in particular?

Almost nobody in the cast had acted in a film before. Real life experiences and genuine presences are what I was searching for. They were incredibly patient with me and the filmmaking process. Many of them underwent various training and practices for several months. Lê Viết Tụng, who plays the veteran, is a real veteran who lost his arm in war. He has an artistic nature that made it easy for him to be in front of the camera, seemingly without acting. There’s a crucial scene in the film where he delivers a three-minute monologue in one continuous take, a feat that’s quite challenging even for professional actors. He practiced his lines for a few months before filming. The filming of the scene went smoother than I anticipated, likely because he poured his real-life experiences and emotions as a soldier into the performance. Casting Việt and Nam presented a different challenge. They needed to appear ordinary, like any other worker, while simultaneously harboring a deeper complexity. When I saw Phạm Thanh Hải (Nam), his gaze and movements exuded a quiet determination, perfectly embodying a character who has chosen his path. Đào Duy Bảo Định (Việt), on the other hand, projects an air of patient endurance and softness, someone who can listen and observe the stories of others. And interestingly, their similar appearances contribute to the “mirror effect” I was aiming to achieve in the film.

We’re speaking a week or so after the announcement that your film will be banned in Vietnam as the government views it is as “gloomy, deadlocked, and negative.” I want to ask you about this, but maybe you could speak about how you consider specific audiences when you’re making work, as well as how you imagine the film being seen by different people. When and how do you decide to make something more or less explicit, particularly elements that would be experienced differently by Vietnamese viewers?

Naturally, there is a gap between how international audiences and how Vietnamese audiences receive it. Vietnamese viewers will feel the film in a much more intimate way because they understand the language, they understand the landscape, they understand the historical references. But I think this film is actually very straightforward. The images are transparent, and everything is there. It’s also in the way the characters express their feelings. They’re very direct in what they say, like telling someone not to go. For me, it was the same for the image.

That said, this could also be daring for some audience members in Vietnam [especially any references to queerness, the war]. But I hope the film can be appreciated in an open way. There are different stories woven in the film, both that of the elder generation and the young people. Lê Viết Tụng, a real Vietnam war veteran who plays one, was deeply moved when he first saw it. He felt that the film honestly captures the experiences of soldiers like him. I hope the audience can feel the same.

In this film I want to include everything, to say everything about Vietnam. Even the title is straightforward in this way. It’s an attempt to call things by their name in order to move on, and not abandon them. To make a film is to face something, and, in a sense, to forget it. Not to forget entirely, as it’s still there, but you don’t need to feel it in the same way, that same heaviness. I made this film to get closer to an inner freedom as a filmmaker.

Jesse Cumming is a freelance writer, editor, and curator.

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