Film has always stood in tense relation to history: it both creates and consumes it. Often, it does both simultaneously. Steve Erickson’s book Days Between Stations features a lost epic of early cinema about the French Revolution, whose uncompromising production, and a murder before its premiere, cast it to the apocryphal corners of history itself. Famously, Francis Ford Coppola’s Vietnam war epic, Apocalypse Now, suffered from a chaotic production that garnered its own fresh claims of animal cruelty and colonial exploitation, and, eventually, a proper historicization (and historiographical study) in the form of a documentary film. Such is the trend of many Western films, particularly those concerned with American warfare in Vietnam: they attempt to bluntly capture history, always distorting it, in the same spirit and tradition of the historical exploitation they seek to explore.
Trương Minh Quý’s first narrative feature film, Việt and Nam, takes a much subtler approach. The film is set in 2001 in a small, impoverished Northern Vietnamese village, and follows two young lovers, Việt and Nam (though neither is named in the film, and the lead actors are credited for both roles), who meet laboring in a coal mine. Both lovers are fatherless, and have been since their birth sometime during a fraught decade in the country’s history. One of the men is preparing for his escape to Europe by dangerous means; the other is contending with the imminent departure of his lover, and his mother’s decades-long quest to determine where the remains of his father lie.
Trương operates expressively in the tradition of slow cinema outlined by the likes of contemporary forebears like Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Bi Gan, Jia Zhangke, and, more recently, his fellow countryman Phạm Thiên Ân. But whereas these directors operate at an intrusive imbrication between the past and the present, Trương situates Việt and Nam firmly in 2001, and focuses his story on history’s cresting waves. Silence and darkness dominate the style that Trương has claimed as his, where dim-lit impressions and an economy of sound do not seek to create or consume history as it happened. Rather, Trương focuses firmly on history’s resonance, waiting to measure its resurgent flickers, so that it can speak for itself.
Conor Truax: In a 2019 interview about The Tree House, you say that you like to focus on editing because it’s the most interesting part of the development process. In what ways is it more interesting than, say, shooting, particularly given the still, almost photographic spirit of this film?
Trương Minh Quý: There are differences between The Tree House and this film, naturally. The Tree House is more of an essay film. It has a certain concept, with a voiceover and archival footage, making the editing more freeform than in this film. I find it amusing to compare editing between fiction and documentary because, for me, documentary is freer than fiction. With this film, we had a script and managed to shoot most of it as planned, but the editing process was less joyful for me compared to The Tree House. Fiction requires compressing the narrative within a certain duration. Everything is calculated — even the acting. If the acting is not good, the scene, no matter how necessary, is compromised.
When editing, if we remove something, we create a gap, and we have to adjust the editing to fill that void. I’m always interested in editing because, for me, an image in either documentary or fiction has more meaning than just serving the narrative. I’m often looking for another meaning — beyond dramaturgy — to evoke certain feelings. Sometimes, by rearranging a scene, I can find a more poetic meaning that changes its impact. For example, placing a scene at the beginning instead of later in the narrative can create a different emotional resonance.
CD: The construction of the film, its composition, and the wide shots — especially at the beginning — feature a lot of silence. There’s minimal dialogue, and even when the lovers communicate, they do so softly and intimately. It’s difficult to differentiate between them, not visually, necessarily, but emotionally. In the credits, both actors are listed as Viet and Nam. I noticed that in some interviews, people refer to one character as Nam. I’m curious — did you view them as distinct, differentiated characters during the development of the film, or did you see them as two sides of the same coin?
TMQ: There’s something funny about scriptwriting and shooting. On paper, you have to assign names to characters, but in the film, you don’t necessarily need to know their names. In the credits, it would have felt weird to omit them, so I put Viet/Nam. I see them as two and one at the same time. I often use the metaphor of looking at yourself in the mirror — you see two faces, but it’s still just one person. I wanted them to appear as if they came from the same family, the same background, the same history. They even look similar to create a mythical feeling.
They belong to the same father, who represents history. But we never see the father — not even a picture. This is unusual in Vietnam, where we usually have an altar to worship ancestors, but I decided not to show any image of the father. Not showing the father’s image ties into the idea of not naming the characters. Eventually, names don’t matter because, like the unknown graves they visit in the second half of the film, most of the tombs are nameless. The bones in the museum are stacked together based on gender and age, but we don’t know who they are.
CD: That’s a distinct aspect of the film — the way these histories shape the lives of those who remain. Yet, unlike Hollywood depictions of the Vietnam War, which have long supplanted actual history for many Americans, your film avoids replacing memory with mythology. I’m curious because your work — including The Tree House — explores both history and historiography. This film seems more focused on writing history or contributing to it. It’s set around 2001, a midpoint between the end of American involvement in the war and the present day. I imagine it’s a practical choice since both lovers are young adults whose fathers fought in the war, but why was it important to set the film at that juncture in their lives?
TMQ: It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why. I wanted the characters to be around 26, which means their fathers could have fought in 1975 or 1976. The film doesn’t specify which war — it could be the war against America, the war with China, or the conflict with the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. 2001 felt like the right moment because I wanted the characters to be young but not too young, so their decisions, like leaving the country, wouldn’t seem immature. At the same time, I didn’t want them to be over 30, where the narrative might feel different.
The reference to 9/11 also played a role. I felt connected to that event from my small city, even though New York is one of the largest cities in the world. Bringing such a significant event into a small village adds multiple layers of interpretation. It also ties back to the idea of U.S. involvement in different wars and how 9/11 marked the beginning of a new era.
CD: The film is a period piece set in the recent past, and it involves multiple methods of mediation. For those engaging with the language, Vietnamese, through translation, how did you think about the challenges of cross-cultural communication?
TMQ: There’s a scene in the birthday sequence where the characters switch pronouns — something that’s impossible to translate. In Vietnamese, partners use pronouns that denote familial roles regardless of age. A woman might call her younger boyfriend “anh” (older brother), and he might call her “em” (younger sibling). When they switch pronouns in that scene, it signifies a shift in their relationship, but this subtlety is lost in translation.
There’s also a challenge in conveying the emotional distance between the audience and the historical events. For example, when I watch American films about D-Day, I don’t have the same unspoken understanding that Western audiences do. Similarly, this film presents daily gestures, beliefs, and traditions that may be unfamiliar to non-Vietnamese audiences. I didn’t make this film for a foreign audience. When you’re inside your own culture, you can’t see how you’re standing within it. You just behave based on your habits and memories. I’ve heard that some viewers unfamiliar with Vietnamese history feel lost, but I believe the film still works emotionally. The search for the father, the lyrical dialogue — these emotional layers remain accessible, even if the historical references are missed.
CD: How have viewers expressed feeling lost? What aspects have been most challenging for them?
TMQ: The historical context and the subtle references to specific wars or traditions can be confusing. However, I think if you set aside these details, the emotional core of the film — the search for fathers and the lyrical dialogue — still resonates. For instance, when Nam stands in front of the cave and speaks into the darkness, he’s expressing his feelings about being a son without a father. This emotional depth can stay with the audience, even if the historical context is unfamiliar.
CD: Speaking of emotional resonance, there’s a striking use of sound in the film, especially in the scene you mentioned. Sound, like images, can evoke and replace memories. How did you approach developing the sound for this film?
TMQ: Sound is as important to me as the image, and I think about it in parallel with the visual while editing. Even during the writing phase, especially after location scouting, I already have an idea of the sound. I wanted the sound to feel raw — perhaps a bit naive, but closer to documentary realism, especially in the coal mining scenes.
The concept behind the sound was to create a space outside the frame, something you don’t see but only hear. This is reflected in the darkness of the tunnels and underground scenes. When we can’t see, but we hear a lot, it creates a contrast. Sound also helped overcome budget limitations — creating the atmosphere of an active coal mine without showing it visually.
In scenes like the one where Nam speaks into the cave, the sound becomes impressionistic, almost like a brushstroke. At times, the sound in this film references war movies. It adds layers of meaning that extend beyond the visible frame.
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