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Mui’s daily life, making tolerable for her the restraining verticals of railings and
frames of diving doors. Tran has said that his childhood memories are sensual
and tactile: ‘the smell of fruit coming in through the window; a woman’s voice
singing on the radio. . . . If I’ve ever experienced harmony in my life it was then’
(Johnston 2001).
Equally allusive, and more sinister, are the scripted references to �war-�planes
heard overhead, along with unexplained dialogue allusions to a ‘curfew’, both
are ready acknowledgement of a Vietnam divided and about to face war with
America, but they remain almost subliminal and contained in this careful lexicon
of images, underwritten so as to interweave with the subtle rituals of Mui’s daily
life. According to Tran, this creation of gentle natural rhythms and customs, with
the war referred to only indirectly, is part of his strategy to explore and promote
the idea of Â�‘Vietnamese-Â�ness’, for like Mantovani, Tran sought to counterbalance
a global media loaded with sensationalist images, in his case the gritty news
footage and melodramatic �military-�movie scenarios that saturated Western film
and television for decades after the Vietnam war was over:
When you go to Vietnam today the people who have lived through the war
with the Americans don’t talk about it. It just doesn’t come into their minds
to do so. And in some ways, possibly subconsciously, I wanted Vietnam to
regain her normality.
(Johnston 2001)
Tran’s statement may to us sound simply like Â�wish-Â�fulfilment (how can a country
in one generation simply stop thinking about its invaders?) but I would argue that,
rather, it speaks to the underlying values of Confucianism that I have experienced
in my own empirical research in Vietnam (Clayton 2003) and which is echoed in
many aspects of Vietnamese culture. Tran himself speaks of Buddhism and its
origins in Confucian thought, which I take in the context of conversations with
him to have two relevant characteristics: first (he means by it) a kind of fatalism,
a view which dictates that worldly events will occur beyond our control, their full
significance beyond our understanding; and secondly, (he refers to) a kind of moral
code by which we are to negotiate our lives in the face of such unpredictable and
unfathomable forces, which requires that the individual respond to, for instance,
suffering or adversity with patience and fortitude. Mindful of fate’s capriciousness,
Confucius preached that ‘virtue carried within it its own reward, namely, the wise
are free from doubts; the virtuous from anxiety; the brave from fear’ (Confucius,
The Analects IX, 28).
Thus in Vietnamese society many people like Tran himself speak stoically, or
not at all, of the war; and thus Mui does not baulk at her servant role, but learns
from the cyclical rhythm of her garden kingdom to show patience and tolerance.
Her employer’s family’s fortunes fall as hers rise, so that as she starts her own
household she completes, as film critic Gary Tooze describes, a kind of circular
rather than linear journey:
On sreenwriting outside the Westâ•… 187
Similarly in his later film, At the Height of the Summer (in the USA called The
Vertical Ray of the Sun) (2000), a film about the lives and loves of three sisters in
Hanoi, Tran constructs a scene where a wife learns that her husband has had a
relationship with another woman. She cries and closes the door on us. He then
takes the narrative away from her, following another parallel story, and only picks
up the tale of the husband and wife after their crisis has passed. Tran says of this:
What interested me was to look at the idea of the couple in the context of
Confucius. In the film, where the photographer tells the truth to his wife,
she cries because it is painful to her. It is at this moment that I choose to
cut. What I cut out is actually very precious in Western cinema, that’s to
say the confrontation. In the West confrontation is dynamic, in Asia it is not
necessarily so, it is the moment when each character asks, which part of this
pain shall I keep within myself.
(Wood 2006)
stories forward. To we who are so attuned to the high drama of the cathartic third
act, and to the histrionics of reality TV which mimic this model and privilege the
moment of the individual’s conflict or emotional excess, Tran’s approach invites us
to reassess the �world-�view, based on the notion of the �self-�willing individual able to
forge real effects on their own universe, that underpins our model. His approach
reassesses the �well-�worn traditions of establishing identification and point of view,
which can limit the viewer’s reading of the text to the conscious (and partial) view
of the hero. Maybe we should trust ourselves to see more.
I have made much here of Tran’s ‘Vietnamese’ outlook but I would like to end
by contextualizing this. Tran is a writer who sees inspiration everywhere, citing
the influence of �writer-�directors David Lynch and Cronenberg, and claiming The
New World (2005) by Terence Mallick as his most influential film. ‘It is like hearing
a Buddhist gong struck. – it is the first Buddhist movie’ (Tran and Clayton 2009).
He is hugely influenced by music, juxtaposing sounds from Velvet Underground
with traditional performed Vietnamese songs as �source-�music in At the Height of
the Summer, and working with Radiohead on I Come with the Rain (2009). He also
is a great lover of Bach: ‘This music opens doors, takes you to another place but
doesn’t quite let you in’ (Tran and Clayton 2009). His screenwriting grammar
or poetics, drawing heavily on both visual and musical tropes, is drawn from his
Vietnamese identity but combined with this eclectic and innovative approach
to other cinemas and to music, leaving us curious to see how such a writer will
combine these elements in his upcoming work for a global audience:
I do not feel French. Here is not my place. But equally I am not accepted by
the French as an ‘ethnic’ Vietnamese; apparently my films lack the sort of
‘veracity’ they want from films about Vietnam. I am permanently suspended,
uncomfortable … I wonder where my true self is. Cinema is in a way my
nationality . . . Cinema is a language that can be learnt.
(Tran and Clayton 2009)
Tran speculates whether his ‘true self ’ may after all be in Vietnam. ‘A life I haven’t
lived . . . but maybe have lost’ (Tran and Clayton 2009). The railings in The Scent of
Green Papaya, the music that ‘almost lets you in’; these speak of a constant theme of
reflecting on the immanence of experience; the moment of fully entering our own
lives; the fantasy of being truly present to our own experience and understanding.
This is maybe something else to learn from cinema from the margins – the
precarious nature of the self, without a home in a more complex philosophical
universe. Tran’s crime film I Come with the Rain (2009) filmed in Los Angeles, the
Philippines and Hong Kong, has been awaiting final edit and release for several
years owing to financial and editorial issues; his new film Norwegian Wood, based on
Haruki Murakami’s Japanese novel, will be released in late 2010. They both are
awaited with enormous interest.