‘Viet And Nam’ Review – Loss Never Leaves

Do we ever really recover from loss? The gaping wound that is left from disappearance, death, and trauma is ever present and painful. Maybe we just become accustomed to the shape of the wound and that is how we move forward. This is true for our personal losses, and even more so for national and cultural losses. Sometimes there is no describing it, even when we all feel it to our deepest core.

Viet and Nam focuses on both a personal and cultural loss, one familiar to international audiences and one likely only familiar to those of Vietnamese descent. It tells the story of two young men, Viet (Duy Bao Dinh Dao) and Nam (Pham Thanh Hai), in a hidden but sweet romantic relationship. Nam’s goal is to leave Vietnam by being smuggled out. Unsurprisingly, Viet does not wish him to leave. But audiences preparing for a stereotypical doomed, gay romance will be thrown for a loop numerous times. There are no tearful arguments or professions of being a soul mate. Instead, the film becomes focused on solving a mystery and the exploration of a nation’s pain.

The mystery is focused on finding the body of Nam’s dead father (who was not aware of his wife’s pregnancy before going off to war) to put him to rest. Much like the film itself, they are guided by dreams and, at best, hazy and unsure ideas. Nam’s mother, Hoa (Nguyen Thi Nga), describes her dreams to her son, which lead them through the countryside, towards psychics, and finally to a tree that she may have seen in a dream. The mystical nature of the film, both positively and negatively, leads the audience to drift in and out of the narrative. However, the cinematography, from Son Doan, absolutely provides a reason to remain focused. From the dreamy, watery focus in the opening scene, the drifting final shot, there is not a single misstep to be found.

There are moments in which there is a lack of clarity from director and writer Truong Minh Quy, regarding both time and place. But this is likely a feature, as opposed to a bug. American audiences may see a lack of technology as a place out of time. And Vietnam, for those in the United States, may not be thought of, except in terms of history now long past. There is one moment, spoken in a mine elevator (where Viet and Nam both work), that references the World Trade Center. This expertly provides both a time and a narrative theme at work. All cultures, at some level, have a national trauma that affects us moving forward. For the U.S., it is clearly that terrorist act. In this film, Vietnam’s trauma is the Vietnam War.

Even for those of us who are relatively learned, we likely only know most of one side of the story. Traveling with Viet, Nam, and Nam’s family on their quest, we are shown another side of history. At its core, Viet and Nam is a ghost story. We see no apparitions, but we empathize with its characters as they travel through the mist of their own history of violence, death, loss, and lack of closure. Seeing the literal statues of the past shows the audience how time has stopped for many people. This is only partially to do with where they live. Mostly, it is the lack of the ability to process grief. Burials are not for the dead, but for the living. If we do not have access to their bodies, no matter how battered or damaged, how can we truly move on? And what about an entire nation? How does a nation move forward while we make announcements on the television desperately searching for some sign of our families? Viet and Nam offers few answers, besides our need to hold on to something, anything that feeds us.  Love, family, and memories. This is what keeps us sane and connected.

Viet and Nam is currently playing in select theaters courtesy of Strand Releasing.