Produced by Jean-Paul Bourdier. New York: Women Make Movies, 2015. 1 DVD (90 min). US$395.00, Universities, Colleges, and Institutions; US$89.00, K-12, Public Libraries, and Select Groups. In English. URL http://www.wmm.com/filmcatalog/pages/c943.shtml.
Forgetting Vietnam, Trinh T. Minh-ha’s cinematic meditation on the legacy of the Vietnam War in contemporary society, is framed by two ancient myths. One describes how the shape of Vietnam was formed when two fighting dragons fell into the South China Sea (or East Sea as it is known in Vietnam). The second traces the origin of the Kinh (Viet) people to the union between a mountain fairy, Au Co, and the Dragon Lord, Lac Long Quan. The serendipitous coupling of land and sea, which led to the creation of the Vietnamese nation, is reflected in the Vietnamese word for country: dat nuoc. Literally meaning “land sea,” the dyadic term dat nuoc acts as the organizing theme for the documentary, bolstered by other dualities that the film contemplates, such as ascending/descending, leaving/returning, old/new, and remembering/forgetting.
The subject of remembering and forgetting is, of course, the war. The documentary commemorates the fortieth anniversary of the end of the war, which saw the victory of the northern half over the southern half of the country. As the film suggests, even after four decades, the impact of the war remains palpable, etched into the land and people. Remembering and forgetting are difficult, for the trauma and pain have not subsided: “scars of war have surfaced publicly through increasing unearthed hidden remains” [36:34]. Moreover, as the film implies, unlike King Le Loi, who, according to legends, wisely returned the magical sword to its water source after defeating his enemy, the current Vietnamese government maintains a tight grip on power, and its control over the social memory of the war has hindered postwar reconciliation. In one of the most poignant scenes, Trinh T. Minh-ha focuses on the 1968 massacre in Hue, an event that resulted in the death of possibly two thousand civilians, and one that the Vietnamese government continues to deny. It is no wonder that “wandering souls of the unclassified, dismissed or ‘impure deads’ continue to populate Vietnam’s collective memory” [36:44].
Highly influential as a feminist and postcolonial theorist, Trinh T. Minh-ha’s films are often experimental and provocative. They challenge narrative and cinematic conventions while raising critical social issues. It is no surprise, then, that Forgetting Vietnam is not a linear conventional documentary. There is no voice-over narration. Instead, scripts comprised of pithy phrases and questions appear throughout the film, superimposed over images of Vietnam’s landscape and people in their everyday life. The documentary features many lyrical scenes of waterways and lush rice fields, underscoring the critical roles of dat and nuoc in not only sustaining life, but also culture and spirituality. The soundtrack is spectacular and at times steals the show. It features traditional music, such as northern-style quan họ, chèo, and popular ballads of the pre-1975 era. The lyrics (which are occasionally translated) and melodies work powerfully with the images to evoke nostalgia and longing.
The film pays special attention to ordinary women: at work, in the market, and at the temples. Even though the film was shot in 1995 and 2012, with a seventeen-year gap that saw enormous transformation, resulting from the normalization of relations with the United States and Vietnam’s reintegration into the global market economy, the images of women and their daily activities suggest more continuity than change. The implication is that women’s daily activities, which have endured war, revolution, and globalization, have been the mainstay of Vietnamese society. Moreover, as some forms of women’s work, such as mobile and street vending, have been outlawed in recent years, their persistence also represents a form of resistance.
Other acts of resistance have also been captured by the film. Interspersed throughout are snippets of people’s conversations that reveal frank criticisms of the state and the Communist Party. Trinh T. Minh-ha also managed to get some candid shots of people in the streets and markets, including those who were clearly bored or disengaged. Most compelling are the few people who, when caught by the camera, stared defiantly instead of averting their eyes. These instances provoke discomfort, as the viewer becomes aware of his or her voyeuristic intrusion and of having the tables turned.
While Trinh T. Minh-ha challenges many conventions in documentary making, this film does not abandon all. The documentary unfolds geographically from north to south, mirroring the historical movement of the Kinh people as they expanded from the Red River into the Mekong Delta. This expansion was facilitated by wars and colonization of the indigenous peoples of the south. By following this north-south trajectory, the documentary, like many historical narratives, privileges the story of the Kinh and the idea of the Red River Delta as the cradle of Vietnamese civilization. In fact, the two myths that anchor the film are creation stories pertinent to the Kinh people and not to the other ethnic groups that continue to inhabit Vietnam. Like remembering and forgetting, documentaries are necessarily selective, and one needs to start somewhere. Nevertheless, it would have been interesting and helpful to reflect openly, however briefly, on these choices.
A related issue is that the film seems to reinforce some longstanding assumptions about the north and south, which are antipodes not only in geography but also in politics for much of the country’s history. The two regions are often stereotyped as polar opposites: the north as the sophisticated, orthodox centre of Vietnam’s culture while the south is seen as heterodox, commercialized, and boorish. The documentary’s choice of scenes, particularly when one contrasts the depictions of Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City, reify these opposing stereotypes. Dominating the images of the north, notably Hanoi, are charming neighbourhoods, traditional musical performances, and tranquil temples. When the camera turns to Ho Chi Minh City, however, one gets jarring traffic, poverty, and uneven urban development. In contrast to Hanoi’s water puppetry, Ho Chi Minh City offers a performance of a scantily clad female acrobat [1:01:10]. While these are not the only images of the south, the film leaves a strong impression of Ho Chi Minh City as fast-paced and competitive [58:28], even though Hanoi in 2012 could be described in similar terms. Implying a lack or loss of Vietnamese culture, the documentary characterizes the city as: “‘New Thailand’ on target” [1:01:22]. As if to underscore the lack of authentic culture further, the subsequent scenes of the Mekong Delta are accompanied by northern-style quan họ singing rather than a style of music native to the south.
Notwithstanding the above two points, this is a poetic and, at times, provocative and moving documentary that contributes to the contemplation of the war’s legacy in contemporary Vietnam.
Van Nguyen-Marshall
Trent University, Peterborough, Canada
pp. 221-224