Arts & Culture - Saigoneer

'Longings' Brings 22 Stories by Vietnamese Female Writers to the World

2024-05-11T13:00:00+07:00

Where are all the female writers?

Foreign editors asked this about an upcoming book I co-translated with Quan Ha that features a novella and 18 Vietnamese stories written between 1930 and 1954. The collection consists entirely of male voices. We wished it wasn’t that way, but literature was an exclusively male domain during that period, in part because more than 90% of the Vietnamese population was illiterate at that time.

Thankfully, literacy rates rose rapidly after colonial rule, and women experienced greater opportunities across society, including in literary communities. Today, any anthology providing an overview of contemporary Vietnamese literature would have no excuse for sidelining the many talented female writers who offer a breadth of styles, subject matters and perspectives as wide as their male counterparts. Within this context, there is a considerable need for a collection consisting exclusively of female voices. Even accounting for the recent success of writers such as Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai and Nguyễn Ngọc Tư, here and abroad, the cannon remains overwhelmingly male; the pendulum must be swung vigorously in the opposite direction.

Moreover, gender balance has improved in Vietnam, but women remain tragically underrepresented in positions of power and reverence while being often reduced to narrow archetypes. What society-wide recognition offered to them seems steeped in patriarchal concepts of women as martyrs or objects of beauty. A recent field trip I took with novelist Dạ Ngân to the Southern Women’s Museum exemplifies the situation. The museum contains little more than an áo dài fashion exhibit and the stories, photographs and artifacts of women involved in the nation’s 20^th-century struggles for peace and freedom. There was no mention of writers, teachers, scientists, mothers, chefs, business leaders, athletes, or artists. “Propaganda,” Dạ Ngân concluded. Promoting beauty queens and representatives of the heroic mother figure is fine, but it should be joined by the celebration of women valued for what they accomplish with their minds. Literature is a valuable means to showcase these individuals via stories’ authors and characters.

Finally, while female writers are capable of producing many of the stories that male authors can, they can also offer up experiences and perspectives unique to their gender, particularly those related to motherhood, patriarchy and traditional societal roles. These stories are invaluable for both female readers who benefit from seeing themselves represented in literature as well as male readers who may otherwise have little access to the innermost thoughts, feelings and lived experiences of women.

All that is to say that Longings: Contemporary Fiction by Vietnamese Women Writers is an important book. It collects 22 stories by female authors originally written in Vietnamese and translated by Quan Manh Ha and Quynh H. Vo. The stories from emerging and established authors were originally published within the last 30 years in various Vietnamese newspapers, literary magazines and short-story collections.

A broad exploration of the minds, desires, and hopes of Vietnamese women

While born and raised in Vietnam, both Quan and Quynh now teach at universities in the United States. Admitting that they do not read enough new Vietnamese literature each year to do this collection justice, they connected with literature professors and authors in Vietnam for recommendations. While the stories are all written by women, they do not explicitly focus on the concepts of femininity or feminism. In so much that they do come together to offer a singular comment regarding women, it’s merely that women contribute immensely to the nation’s literary landscape and are not a monolith in thought or action. There are certain themes and topics that do emerge numerous times within the book, particularly romantic love, prostitution, Confucian notions of filial piety, and one’s search for meaning in the world. Yet, the conclusions or impressions one can glean about these subjects occasionally contradict or oppose one another, which makes for a particularly rich reading experience.

The most repeated source of tension in Longings involves romantic love. Women search for husbands, mourn the loss of lost husbands, fight with poorly behaved husbands, suffer at the hands of abusive husbands and reflect on the joys that husbands bring. Notably, one cannot separate romantic love from the institution of marriage in the works. While the collection as a whole can be seen as progressive in its aims of elevating female voices and touching on taboo subjects, many of the individual pieces reflect Vietnam’s conservative or older values that include virtue being a result of choices and marriage as a foregone conclusion along with having children. For instance, the elderly protagonist in ‘Under the Blooming Silk Cotton Tree’ by Tịnh Bảo is described as: “All she had ever wished for was a happy family, a humble life, a kind and hardworking husband, and a simple house.”

As works of realism, the stories hold a mirror to modern society and, in doing so, can question and criticize traditional values, particularly marriages, and make arguments for improvements. In ‘Selecting a Husband,’ by Kiều Bích Hậu for example, a protagonist entertains the idea of marrying a rich man, a masculine man, a man who satisfies her sexual needs, or one who provides her with children, before reaching “the epiphany that the perfect man is one she must make for herself.” Similarly, after experiencing an abusive, morally defunct husband, the protagonist in ‘Under the Blooming Silk Cotton Tree’ advises her daughter: “Women always have stood below men. But your generation is more educated. You’ll need to live for yourself. You’ll have to live for yourself. Marriage is not the only path to happiness.”

“Women always have stood below men. But your generation is more educated. You’ll need to live for yourself. You’ll have to live for yourself. Marriage is not the only path to happiness.”

Views on marriage that deviate from norms often coincide with radical lifestyle choices in the stories. ‘Late Moon’ by Nguyễn Thị Châu Giang, for example, offers a character who flaunts notions of traditional behavior and runs off to lead a bohemian lifestyle before having a child she intends to raise as a single mother. As with much good literature, there is no simple, singular point being made or expressed through this woman’s trajectory. Rather, “her life resembled an abstract painting characterized by large, barely visible black strokes among which thin red strokes slithered in no particular order. These strokes were like the smoldering remains of a fire that could burst back into a blaze and burn everything into ashes.”

If marriage is an expected joy, then prostitution seems to be a regrettable inevitability in society. One of the most repeated topics in Longings is women depicted at their most commodified and in doing so, they give a voice to the often silent objects of desire in men’s stories. The act of selling one’s body for sex, however, is presented via different lenses. While never glamorized nor condemned as a moral failure, some stories, such as ‘Green Plum’ by Trần Thùy Mai examine root causes and explain how prostitution is the result of poverty, patriarchy and a lack of education that victimizes women. Some stories emphasize the violence and dehumanization of the job, while others stress the resilience and strength of the women forced to endure it.

Most of the authors featured in Longings were born in or after the 1960s and thus the nation’s 20^th-century wars do not overwhelm the collection, appearing in only a few stories. And except ‘The Smoke Cloud,’ by Nguyễn Thị Kim Hoà, they are set long after peace has arrived, when characters must tend to the lingering wounds. This allows for interesting variations on the familiar theme of women carrying the greatest burdens of war. Dạ Ngân’s stunning ‘White Pillows’ for example, explores the challenges a wife must face when her husband returns physically and psychologically devastated by combat. She must find somewhere, literally and metaphorically, to stuff “half a century of emotions and suffering.”

While domestic relationships provide the most common sources of tension in the stories, there are a few exciting deviations. ‘After the Storm’ by Trần Thị Thắng, for example, follows the life of a domestic caregiver who must work in Saigon after her family lost everything in a devastating storm in Cà Mau in 1997. The classic “human vs. nature” conflict carries a strong environmentalist message with Buddhist underpinnings when showing what happens to human lives when societies do live in sustainable partnership with the planet. Human trafficking, another important contemporary problem, is shown not via familiar journalistic numbers and statistics but by individual women and involved actors in ‘At the Border’ by Võ Thị Xuân Hà. Religion makes few appearances, but when it does, it arrives as a bold force with the potential to disrupt the societal conventions laid out elsewhere.

Contemporary and even online Vietnam as a setting

Vietnam serves as the setting for most of the stories, with several exceptions incorporating non-Vietnamese societies as sources of tension and hinting at Vietnamese peoples’ legacies of migration. The 1980s conflict between Vietnam and Cambodia and the culturally, ethnically and politically porous border between the two nations serves as the backdrop of ‘Boozing with a Khmer Rouge’ by Võ Diệu Thanh. Elsewhere, the world abroad is not a source of danger, but one of opportunity. In both Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai’s ‘Buds’ and ‘Selecting a Husband,’ the main characters question whether they can find greater happiness outside of Vietnam. Similarly, the caregiver in “After the Storm” is offered the opportunity to move abroad. The decisions each of the characters make regarding life overseas underscores the collection’s commitment to diverse opinions and observations that reinforce the diversity of Vietnamese experiences.

This breadth of subject matter in Longings is impressive, but the variety of represented regions within Vietnam might be even more significant. The editors have done an excellent job finding representation from all areas, including rural and urban settings. Whether it’s a southern island, a northwest farming village, or a Central Highlands forest, the rural settings all suggest a certain timelessness. The often miserable experiences of the characters are not dependent on where or even when they live. Endurance, suffering and acceptance are thus presented as Vietnam-wide qualities.

The editors have done an excellent job finding representation from all areas, including rural and urban settings. Whether it’s a southern island, a northwest farming village, or a Central Highlands forest, the rural settings all suggest a certain timelessness.

But other stories, particularly those set in the cities, are very much of the modern world, with references to social media, business trends and cultural changes. Those placed in the overt present allow for interesting commentary on the pursuit of happiness relevant to younger generations. In ‘The Eternal Forest,’ by Trịnh Bích Ngân, the narrator is representative of an educated, urban-dwelling class that many readers will relate to: “Like everyone else, she had experienced the vicissitudes of life. She reflected on herself and her life and dared not abandon the online masses to be alone. In addition to her few close friends, many people whom she had never met in person ‘liked’ her photos. That was sufficient for her — the ‘likes’ she received filled the days’ emptiness. An emptiness that consumed her heart even when she and her husband made love.” This particular story and several others help the collection to not only look at Vietnamese society of the recent past but also the present with the assumption that both are needed to understand where it may be headed.

Because several stories take place in the nation’s mountainous western regions, Dao, H'Mông and Ê-đê ethnic minority communities are represented. Particular customs, such as Dao women using a separate entrance to their homes for a full month after giving birth as depicted in ‘Raindrops on his Shoulders,’ by Tống Ngọc Hân, remind readers that Vietnamese is not synonymous with the Kinh ethnic majority. Indeed, Kinh Vietnamese only make up 85% of the population and it's incorrect to conflate the two when attempting to provide a panoramic view of society via literature. Some, particularly western readers, may perhaps raise issues with the fact that two of the three ethnic minority stories were written by Kinh authors, raising questions of appropriation and questioning who has the right to tell which stories. Saigoneer spoke with Đỗ Bích Thúy about her story in this collection, ‘The Sound of Lip Lute Behind the Stone Fence’ for a longer feature detailing how it became the basis for the popular film Chuyện của Pao (The Story of Pao) wherein we discussed this issue. The situation in some ways mirrors the reasons why there were no female writers during the colonial period while also leaving space to debate how matters of representation may differ in American versus Vietnamese contexts.

An unburdening rooted in realism

Much of this review of Longings has involved noticing similarities between the stories and recognizing powerful deviations. This can be done for the writing styles as well. They all fit within the larger category of realism with no wild experimentations. However, differing points of view, voices, tenses, timelines and descriptive interests keep each story feeling wholly distinct while allowing readers to grasp the variety of influences and styles that exist in modern Vietnamese literature, reflective of a vibrant and evolving scene.

When I first read, ‘On the Rạng Riverbank’ by Trịnh Thị Phương Trà, it struck me as a familiar story. It opens with a journalist from the city working on a newspaper’s annual Tết issue, who travels to a remote, rural area to interview a widow about her experience meeting and falling in love with a local man, and her decades of isolation after he dies not long after their wedding night. Their bond is strengthened throughout the brief personal moments afforded them during the war with America. This tale of sacrifice and longing will not seem unique to anyone who has read much Vietnamese literature.

And yet, if one looks at it from a slightly different angle, it offers powerful commentary on literature generally and this book specifically. As Quan recently explained to me, the woman is only able to share her story because the newspaper wants to publish it. And she seems to have been waiting for such a moment, the narrator noting that she tells it “like she had been practicing this soliloquy before some invisible audience for years.” By unburdening her life’s narrative, she brings it to others who may have family or friends with similar stories who have never had the opportunity or confidence to share them. Literature is thus a crucial element in the dissemination of experiences. The stories in this book function the same way, and in doing Longings allows readers to engage in the construction of collective knowledge, understanding and, ultimately, empathy.

Monotonous Viet-Dubbed K-Dramas Were the Soundtrack of My Childhood

2024-05-09T11:00:00+07:00

When I was growing up, my family owned a broken TV whose screen would unexpectedly go black while the audio continued to play. Turning it off and on again a couple of times would fix the problem, but it was such a hassle that sometimes we just let it be. It was stationed in our dining room, and my parents loved putting on Korean dramas when we were eating. So whenever I reminisce about my childhood, the sound of dubbed K-dramas always plays the background.

During the mid-2000s amig the Hallyu wave in Vietnam, K-dramas were widely broadcast. Always dubbed in Vietnamese, these early series relied on voiceover, typically a northern woman's voice, for all the dialogue. In the 2010s, more professional voice acting work started gaining popularity, allowing each character in the series to have a unique voice.

The voiceover lines back then were quite monotonous, so I wasn’t as fond of them as my parents were, preferring Japanese and American cartoons. However, I did continue to encounter K-dramas, albeit in a different way. My parents placed an old TV in my room at some point, so in addition to watching my favorite shows on it, I developed a habit of playing dubbed K-dramas to fill the silence while doing homework or other activities. The familiar voices of these family drama characters going about their mundane lives and having routine conversations put me at ease.

My Lovely Sam Soon (2005) and Winter Sonata (2002), two highly rated K-drama hits of the 2000s.

The habit stopped once I got a laptop that allows me to watch whatever I want. If I need background sound in my room, I can just go to YouTube and play lofi hip hop radio - beats to relax/study to. It's more convenient in general, but those old dubbed K-dramas are hard to find online.

Every once in a while, I would visit an older relative’s house and hear those recognizable dubbed voices again. Such occassions take me back to my family dinners and my teen-era bedroom, when the biggest worries in my life were finishing homework and preparing for tests.

On Returning to K-Drama, the Glue Bringing My Mom and Me Close Together

2024-05-06T10:00:00+07:00

Before Squid Game became an international phenomenon and put K-dramas on the world map, audiences in Asian countries including Vietnam were enthralled by Boys Over Flowers, The Medical Brothers, Terms of Endearment, Dae Jang Geum — all of which are classics that we still look upon with nostalgic affection.

My mother and I were deeply invested in K-dramas in the mid-2000s. If we found a series we both liked, we would remind each other to turn on the TV at airtime so as not to miss a single episode. Once the whole series had concluded, we would hunt down a bootleg DVD copy to rewatch it, often together. We would laugh at the subpar voiceover and weird Vietnamized names.

Growing up, a love of K-dramas was one of the few similarities Mom and I shared, making it a precious bonding opportunity that bridged a wide generational gap. We had incredibly different tastes when it comes to entertainment; she liked Vietnamese TV series, which were always too cheesy and absurd for my taste. I liked Disney Channel and American TV series, which are in a language she doesn’t understand with no voiceover, often featuring plots that are too complex or explicit. K-dramas were where we met each other halfway.

By high school, I had gradually grew bored of K-drama’s predictable plots, stereotypical characters and frequent use of cancer to add drama. The often histrionic performances that were once funny became tiresome. When Netflix was first introduced in Vietnam, I switched completely to American TV shows which struck me as more intelligent and interesting. For two or three years, I abandoned K-drama in favor of these English-speaking series. As a result, Mom and I spent significantly less time together laughing and talking.

I haven't been paying any attention to the new and trendy K-drama series like I once had, until Netflix added much more Korean-language content. Out of curiosity, I started watching again and saw how dramatically the genre had changed. It has grown out of overuse of cancer; and tragic, predictable love triangle setups, instead introducing more diverse themes with greater focus on visual quality and acting performance. K-drama is no longer just a go-to choice for sappy love stories.

These days, I enjoy well-made K-dramas among other series in different languages. But sappy K-dramas are still great when I want something fun, and lighthearted that won’t leave me pondering the implications of after the series ends. More importantly, they remain an opportunity for Mom and I to spend time together, laugh, and be reminded of how much we both loved them back then.

For a Horror Film About an Ageless Portrait, 'Mười' Hasn't Aged Well

2024-04-28T20:00:00+07:00

It’s undeniable that Mười: The Legend of a Portrait has left a lasting impression in the minds of a generation of Vietnamese, as the first collaboration between Vietnam and South Korea’s cinema industries. Watching this contemporary classic in 2024, however, made me realize that Mười has not aged well.

Excitement in the early days of the Hallyu Wave

Mười was the first-ever horror film I watched in the theater, and the experience was memorable for many reasons. Beside the grown-up excitement of going to the movies alone with my teenage buddies, our encounter with Mười was made even more thrilling by the fact that the movie was NC-16 and we weren’t of age. Oh the simple joys of being young, when eluding the nonchalant eyes of the ticket clerk — who probably wasn’t paid enough to care that we were underaged — could make one feel like such daredevils.

The official poster of Mười.

When Mười was first announced in 2006, it was a project of many firsts, too. Tuổi Trẻ called it “Vietnam’s first commercial film with elements of mystery and horror”; the film was the first Vietnamese release scandalous enough to receive the NC-16 rating, but the media at the time was more celebratory about the fact that it was also the first collaborative release between Vietnamese and South Korean productions. The movie poster, featuring the two Korean leads clad in sleek áo dài, inspired much pride amongst Vietnamese cinema fans, who have long held the belief that our local film industry is well beneath that of Korea.

If the US and the rest of the world are only just getting a taste of the Korean wave in recent years thanks to the bombastic global success of Parasite and Squid Game, Vietnam and much of Southeast Asia fell under the Hallyu spell much earlier than that. The first South Korean drama to ever grace Vietnamese TV screens, Hoa Cúc Vàng (Marigold, 1992), was broadcast in Hanoi in 1996 and then syndicated in Saigon in 1999 to rapturous reception by Vietnamese female viewers. The next decade witnessed a popularity boom of Korean TV series in the country, marked by the release of notable classics like Cảm Xúc (Feelings, 1994), Người Mẫu (Model, 1997), and Bản tình ca mùa đông (Winter Sonata, 2002). This newfound enthusiasm for soap operas ignited a Korean fever that spread to all corners of pop culture in Vietnam, including cuisine, travel, fashion, and later, K-pop.

Mười was co-produced by South Korean mogul CJ Entertainment and Hãng Phim Phước Sang, one of Vietnam’s earliest film companies formed after Đổi Mới. The metaphorical handshake between the two was met with sanguine commentaries in the media; there was hope that it would be a sign of growth for the local cinema industry at the time, which was rife with cheap, raunchy slapstick comedies. In the 2000s, thanks to critically acclaimed titles like A Tale of Two Sisters (dir. Kim Jee-woon, 2003) and The Host (dir. Bong Joon-ho, 2006), South Korean horror became a well-respected brand in Asia, producing high-quality works that were on par with and distinctly different from their Hollywood counterparts. So a Vietnamese co-production with Korea like Mười was seen as a great honor, though the movie ultimately failed to live up to its Korean predecessors.

A Korean horror with Vietnamese set dressing

Mười: The Legend of a Portrait follows the story of two Korean characters, Yoon-hee (Jo An) and Seo-yeon (Cha Ye-ryeon), who were close childhood friends but grew apart as adults. Seo-yeon mysteriously moved to Vietnam shortly after Yoon-hee published her first novel, part of which was based on malicious rumors about her friend. Three years have passed, and Yoon-hee, now facing writing deadlines from her publisher, is enticed by the legend of Mười, a Vietnamese urban legend of a female ghost with demonic powers, and decides to visit Seo-yeon in Vietnam to research Mười for her new book. The long-lost friends meet again when Seo-yeon invites Yoon-hee to stay at her French-built villa in Đà Lạt while she investigates the tale of Mười, but ghastly truths start to rear their heads as Yoon-hee gradually discovers that her childhood buddy is much more involved in the legend of Mười than she first appears.

Cha Ye-ryeon (left) as Seo-yeon and Jo An (right) as Yoon-hee.

The contemporary timeline is interspersed with sepia-tinted flashbacks recounting the life and gruesome death of Mười (Anh Thư), a young girl living 100 years ago. Mười was the tenth and youngest child in a poor family in the Mekong Delta. She fell in love with Nguyễn (Bình Minh), a local painter, not knowing he was already married to Hồng (Hồng Ánh), an aristocratic lady with a sadistic jealous streak. Enraged to discover the tryst, Hồng and her henchmen broke into Mười’s house, tortured her, broke her foot, and obliterated her face with acid. Pushed to a dead-end, Mười committed suicide, but her forever-disturbed soul started possessing an unfinished portrait Nguyễn was painting of her, wreaking havoc on Hồng’s life. Under the pretense of rekindling their love and completing the artwork, Nguyễn lured Mười’s phantom to a pagoda. After he was done with her portrait, a group of monks appeared, using Buddhist chants to subdue her in time for the head monk to lock her soul into the portrait using a hairpin.

Bình Minh (left) as Nguyễn and Anh Thư (right) as Mười.

For the most part, as a horror film, Mười is a decent watch, albeit a formulaic and predictable one. Its simplistic tropes surrounding a love triangle and demonic possession make it easy to digest even for non-horror fans, and its straightforward script leaves little room for plot holes to spoil the fun. Cha Ye-ryeon as the willowy and enigmatic Seo-yeon is the single bright spot in the film, acting-wise, balancing vulnerability and eeriness with surgical precision. You can’t help but sympathize with her tragic life, even though a small part in the back of your mind is ever creeped out by her wide-set grin.

The demon that's sidelined in her own film

The word “collaboration” often implies a somewhat equal relationship between involved parties, but in the case of Mười: The Legend of a Portrait, the Korean end of the equation completely dominated the movie, while the Vietnamese facets were haphazardly done at best and sidelined at worst. For one, the script makes little effort to get the background historical and geographical details right.

Even the gorgeously shot Vietnamese settings are riddled with logistical inaccuracies: the two Korean friends meet at Tân Sơn Nhất Airport in Saigon, drive to Seo-yeon’s Đà Lạt villa, and, in the next scene, are sitting on a boat on the way to visit Mười’s homestead in the Mekong Delta, which is somehow still very well-preserved for a thatched hut that was constructed 100 years ago.

This riverine scenic landscape must be a new tourist attraction in Đà Lạt.

The worst thing about Mười is that I can count on one hand the number of sentences each Vietnamese cast member is given. Even as the titular character, Mười doesn’t have a single line of dialogue, save for the screaming when she is tortured, and the demonic shrieks when she apparates to do the haunting. What’s more, every Vietnamese character is depicted in a bad light: Mười is a demon, Nguyễn is a cheating fuccboi, Hồng is a jealous sadist, even the random old lady on the street is a creep with a white eye. The only helpful character outside the main pair is half-Vietnamese, half-Korean, played by a Korean actress. Maybe the real horror of Mười is how this purported Vietnam-Korea co-production has repeatedly failed its Vietnamese cast and setting.

Hồng Ánh was completely wasted as Hồng. Still, even with the scant material she was given, Ánh's facial muscles did a sterling job.

In every piece of promotional material and throughout the film, Anh Thư wears a white áo dài, accentuating the striking contrast between Mười’s lived innocence and her bloodthirsty, mangled demonic form. Nguyễn, her painter lover; and Hồng, his vindictive wife, are also portrayed in different cuts of áo dài. The timeline puts Mười’s birth year at around the 1900s, making this liberal usage of áo dài impossible, because the first áo dài wasn’t even invented until 1934, let alone the form-fitting, high school uniform-style version Mười is always seen in.

Mười is so ahead of her time that she wears a contemporary dress 100 years her junior.

This historical error is even more grating to notice, considering áo dài is the only key element tethering the film to Vietnam, because there is nothing in Mười that’s inherently linked to Vietnamese culture. The central conflict revolves around a jealous crime of passion so generic one can switch out Đà Lạt with Chiang Mai or Kaohsiung, and áo dài with Thai pha sin or Taiwanese qipao to produce other Asian iterations, i.e. สิบ or 十.

Áo dài is used throughout Mười as a poor attempt to emphasize the Vietnamese element.

Nothing is as ostentatiously “Vietnam” as áo dài — perhaps with the exception of a bowl of phở, but it’s much harder to make supposedly Vietnamese characters wear phở — so international productions usually slap an áo dài on their Vietnamese characters, as a lazy shortcut to signify Vietnam-ness, without bothering to research the appropriate contexts when áo dài is worn in Vietnamese culture. Curiously, the 2000s also brought us two other Vietnam-centric Korean TV projects: Cô Dâu Hà Nội (Hanoi Bride, 2005) and Cô Dâu Vàng (The Golden Bride, 2007). Both feature South Korean actresses in Vietnamese roles, wearing áo dài everywhere and speaking gibberish Vietnamese. Ironically, in this era, Mười was the only depiction of a Vietnamese woman in a Korean production that didn’t fall under the stereotype of a foreign bride.

The dynamic between Vietnamese and South Korean media industries is akin to that of an older sibling and their wide-eyed baby sister. One always peeks at the other through the lens of hero worship, trying on their shoes and makeup while they’re not home, hoping to be like them when they grow up. The other thinks the baby sister’s antics are… cute, but almost never taken seriously. The creation of Mười: The Legend of a Portrait epitomizes this skewed relationship, in which one side tries too hard to please, and the other just doesn’t seem to care enough to put in an effort.

An Ode to Photo Booths, the Korean Trend Preserving Our Memories in Time

2024-04-24T10:00:00+07:00

How can photo booths be a new trend if they’ve been around forever?

Since the COVID-19 pandemic, photo booths have been popping up everywhere in South Korea, sometimes right next door to one another. The trend has expanded into malls, busy streets and suburbs in Vietnam as well. But why now? Photo booths that take and print somewhat instantaneous portraits are nothing new. The first public model opened in New York City nearly 100 years ago, and the unmistakable bookmark-thin line of photos has been featured on album covers and movie posters for decades.

Photo booths fell out of favor gradually. Film cameras became cheaper, followed by digital cameras and, finally, in our modern age, everyone has a rather stunning camera attached to the smartphone in their pocket. Plus, we can store and share photos online via a variety of screens. Long gone are the days where the only picture you might have of someone was taken in a photo booth.

Like most fashion trends, young people are driving the popularity of photo booths. Youths today grew up never needing to print photos, so the tactical nature of photo booths presents a neat novelty — a remarkably tangible artifact in a virtual world. The booths notably accommodate groups of friends, another important interaction when communications are increasingly remote. Throw in some slick cross-marketing by trendy celebrities and goofy costume accessories, and the appeal is obvious.

Most trends emerge because a new technology or innovation emerges that changes the world. But sometimes, the world changes, which means it's going back to the inventions of the past provides a comforting novelty.

But rather than ending this Vignette on a mawkish dissection of why something is cool, I’d like to offer a suggestion. Having just gone through another round of official photo-taking for government documents, I’d like to propose we can use our Korean photo booth images on identity cards; it’s more fun and I look better in a plush frog hat than I do a photoshopped suit, anyways.

The Life, Death and Legacy of 7 Pillars of Vietnam's Quốc Ngữ Literary Wealth

2024-04-22T08:00:00+07:00

When I first started as a writer, I noticed that I couldn’t write in Vietnamese very well, despite the fact that I was born here. Most of my English vocabulary comes from books, so in order to improve my mother tongue, I began reading Vietnamese texts. The first one I chose was Hà Nội Băm Sáu Phố Phường, or The 36 Streets of Hanoi, by Thạch Lam. This book had been lying on my bookshelf for a long time, but that day was the first time I picked it up.

Before reading any sentence of Thạch Lam, the foreword written by Khái Hưng already made me cry — partly because of his excellent prose, which was concise yet profound. And I was touched also because they, whom I saw as writing colleagues, had laid out a literary path that I could follow for the rest of my life.

The logo of the Tự Lực Văn Đoàn collective.

A band of literary brothers

Thạch Lam and Khái Hưng were members of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn, or the Self-Reliant Literary Group. The writer collective was founded during the French colonial era with the purpose of "enriching our country's literary wealth.” As a reader loving their works, I was drawn to the story of Tự Lực. This was not just a story about writing and journalism, it was also about the destiny of a country — a story with tragedies that still resonate to this day.

Tự Lực Văn Đoàn's key members.

“The story of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn was a huge conflict of the Vietnamese society,” Nguyễn Đình Huynh tells me. Huynh has studied the Self-Reliant group for over 50 years; he was enraptured with their story because he was born in Cẩm Giàng, the same hometown as three group members — three siblings — Thạch Lam, Hoàng Đạo, and Nhất Linh.

“Around 1925, Vietnamese literature began to shift from the brush to the fountain pen," he explains. “At that time, all French government documents changed from Confucian script [chữ Nho] to Vietnamese script, so the literary world also moved from Chinese to quốc ngữ [modern Vietnamese]."

The newspaper's "Vui Cười" (Humor) section.

Although quốc ngữ has existed since the 17^th century, it was not until the time of Tự Lực that people used it to create literature. “Besides Tự Lực, there were other people writing with quốc ngữ, but they were doing it separately and lacked association. The Group, on the other hand, was the collection of seven people, the seven best writers of all literary genres. Nhất Linh assigned their roles, this one writing essays, that one poetry… Thus, when they published a newspaper, they could cover it all.”

The Group’s work first reached its audience through Phong Hoá — Vietnam’s first satirical newspaper. With an issue in hand, readers could pore over a chapter of Nhất Linh's novel, then move on to Hoàng Đạo's social commentary, stay curious through Thạch Lam's nightlife reportage, laugh along with Tú Mỡ's satirical poetry, criticize the ludicrous mistakes of other newspapers along with Khái Hưng, shiver at Thế Lữ's horror stories, and recite Xuân Diệu's romantic poems. And holding true to the satirical identity, the section “Vui Cười" (Humor) had the most writers, with submissions not only from the whole editorial team, but also the public.

“The Self-reliant Literary Group gained popularity in the 1930s,” said Martina Thục Nhi Nguyễn, an associate professor of history at Baruch College at City University of New York. “They were the first generation who studied completely under the new Franco-Vietnamese education system. Compared to the previous generations of intellectuals, they were completely different. The previous generation of Phạm Quỳnh or Nguyễn Văn Vĩnh, if they wanted to be in academia, they had to study Confucianism. But then the next generation, of Nhất Linh, Thạch Lam, Vũ Trọng Phụng…they all learned western studies.”

In the curriculum of the west, they read foreign literature. Martina continued: “The contribution of the Group to Vietnam’s literature was applying foreign genres to create works in quốc ngữ.” The first principle of the Group was:

“Write our own books of literary value, and not just translate foreign books, if these books are purely literary.”

Instead of translating Les Miserables like Phạm Quỳnh did, the Group read foreign books, then reflected among themselves and created their own works, for their fellow countrymen, in Vietnamese. Take Thế Lữ, for example: he wrote a series of short stories about Lê Phong, a reporter who specializes in solving mysterious cases with Sherlock Holmes’ deductive reasoning.

When it first started, the Group hired a printing house to publish their books and newspapers. After that, they bought printing machines to open Đời Nay, their own publishing house. To see how popular the Group's books were, one can just look at the numbers. In the years from 1925–1945, the average book had 1,000–2,000 copies printed. As for the Group's books, at least 5,000 copies of each title were printed, with some reaching 16,000. Khái Hưng was the best-selling author with a total volume of 87,000 copies.

And then there were none

A portrait of Thạch Lam. Image via Hà Nội Mới.

In 1942, the Group lost its first member, Thạch Lam, to tuberculosis. In his final moment, his brothers in the Group couldn’t be there. Hoàng Đạo and Khái Hưng were imprisoned in Hòa Bình, while Nhất Linh had to flee to China; they had been involved in anti-French activities.

Huynh says: “If the Group had not failed in the revolution, then they would have been praised greatly. But they got into trouble because they were anti-communist. Some people say Tự Lực Văn Đoàn ended in 1942 to avoid talking about what happened after.”

At that time, France was in an inferior position during World War II, and then Japan invaded Vietnam, making the colonial government even weaker. A series of secret organizations were formed with the aim of gaining independence. Thạch Lam, Tú Mỡ and Thế Lữ were not politically active, while Nhất Linh, Khái Hưng and Hoàng Đạo formed their own party. They later joined Việt Nam Quốc Dân Đảng, one of the non-communist parties.

From left to right: Nhất Linh, Khái Hưng, Hoàng Đạo.

Huynh said: “To tell you the truth, at that time the Vietnamese revolution was very complicated. Everybody said they were patriotic, but they were patriotic in their own way. All parties wanted to fight for independence, but this one wanted to crown a king, that one might want a prime minister, the other wanted a head of state, each had their own way.”

With their difference in ideals, the parties got so divided that eventually the Vietnamese not only fought the French, but also each other. In his last novel, Giòng Sông Thanh Thuỷ, Nhất Linh wrote about his revolutionary activities in Vietnam and China from 1944–1945, the time when tensions between Việt Quốc and the Việt Minh came to a murderous boiling point.

Photo via Quán Sách Gia Trinh.

This was also a time of decline for the Group. Phong Hoá had stopped publishing for several years after being accused of mocking the government. Ngày Nay, their "backup" newspaper in case Phong Hóa was suspended, originally focused on social issues, then became a propaganda tool for Việt Quốc. The Group’s time of writing freely had come to an end.

In 1945, the August Revolution succeeded. All the parties temporarily sat together to create the Government of Resistance Coalition, with Hồ Chí Minh at the top. Remembering this time, Tú Mỡ once wrote: “[In the new government], anh Tam [Nhất Linh] was the Minister of Foreign Affairs, anh Long [Hoàng Đạo] the Minister of the Economy. I was happy, Tự Lực Văn Đoàn may be together again. But I was wrong...”

It’s hard to know everything that happened. Not long afterward, Nhất Linh resigned and left for China. Khái Hưng was captured and executed by the Việt Minh after the Ôn Như Hầu incident. Hoàng Đạo died suddenly on a train in China, and his family is still unsure whether he was poisoned or not. Later on, Nhất Linh also drank poison and killed himself.

From left to right: Tú Mỡ, Thế Lữ, Xuân Diệu.

And so among the seven of Tự Lực, only Tú Mỡ, Thế Lữ, and Xuân Diệu lived until old age. The others were called traitors, and their descendants had to flee the country. That is why the tragedy still resonates to this day. Fortunately, the most valuable thing that Tự Lực created, their văn sản, or literary wealth, lives on.

Of the seven members of Tự Lực, only Xuân Diệu was honored with a street in Hanoi. Photos by Linh Phạm.

The book Hà Nội Băm Sáu Phố Phường is an anthology of all the newspaper pieces that Thạch Lam wrote, which were published one year after he was gone. The book has 22 chapters, among which 16 are about the cuisine of Hanoi. But Thạch Lam didn’t just simply write about food, he also described the affection that an opium addict harbors for a piece of giò, or the happiness of a cart driver sipping wine, or the way that the courtesans ate bún ốc: “The sour broth wrinkled the tired faces, the hot pepper burns the wilted lips, and sometimes makes them drop a tear that is more honest than any shed for love.”

Through food, Thạch Lam talked about the daily life of the Vietnamese. In the book's foreword, Khái Hưng writes:

“Thăng Long’s history is not just the rise and fall of dynasties…It is also the daily lives of the people, with all the customs and personalities, with all the unique characters, with all the fleeting joys and sorrows of the tiny souls living in dark corners, leaving behind no name, no legacy.”

When Thạch Lam wrote about “the tiny souls living in the dark,” he contributed to that which Khái Hưng called dã sử, or history written by the people. This part was what made me cry. I became a writer because I want to write down the things I see and hear. And from deep within my soul, I felt the longing to follow in their footsteps.

The headquarters of Tự Lực at 80 Quán Thánh was an imposing villa before, but is now obscured by shops and a bank.

Both Martina and Huynh asked why I cared about Tự Lực. I didn’t have a good answer then, but it is much clearer now. I tell their story to show my respect for the ones who built our quốc ngữ literary wealth, the ones who inspire me to keep on adding to the dã sử of this country.

This feature was first published in May 2022.

Thành Đồng's Music Is a Breath of Fresh Air in the Era of Overproduction

2024-04-17T16:00:00+07:00

Inspired by life 's simple joys, Thành Đồng delivers a sense of familiarity, earnestness, and narrative richness with every song.

When a music video director writes music

I was first introduced to Thành Đồng’s music via a Facebook page and was immediately drawn to the striking visuals and melodies of his creations. Using very mundane imagery, he manages to breathe in a range of moods, from solitude to melancholy to hope, forging an intimate connection between what viewers see on screen and what they hear in their ears.

Upon further research, I learned about Thành Đồng’s past works as a music video director. During a decade in the industry, Đồng and his team produced several chart-topping hits, including some pop earworms that have amassed millions of replays like ‘Thu cuối,’ ‘Gửi anh xa nhớ,’ and ‘Bước qua mùa cô đơn.’

Before releasing his own music, Thành Đồng directed.

Before unveiling his own music, Thành Đồng “debuted” by lending his voice to the smash hit ‘Anh đếch cần gì nhiều ngoài em’ alongside Đen and Vũ. He also collaborated with folk singer Lê Cát Trọng Lý in ‘Chuyện chúng mình cùng.’ Even earlier than that, Thành Đồng shared that he was also active on SoundCloud, sharing a few songs that he wrote himself like ‘Tình yêu’ and ‘Mưa mùa hạ.’

No matter which role Đồng occupies in a project, he always tries to add his personal touch every step of the way. Đồng’s music videos are often characterized by realist sequences in neutral tones without much grandiose special effects. Music-wise, Đồng opts for acoustic guitar and everyday subject matters, telling the stories of his own inner world through very folksy melodies.

Storytelling and music writing

When asked about how he finds materials to find music, Đồng answers: “I write my songs just from everyday events that are familiar to everyone, things that have been in my mind since I was young. I remember them and write them into songs.” This wistful way of telling stories has always been part of Đồng’s craft right from very early works like ‘Tình yêu’ to his debut EP “Trong im ở lặng.”

In 2021, Thành Đồng published “Trong im ở lặng,” humbly categorizing it as “just a playlist” as he felt that it was created just for fun, not professional enough to be album or EP. In the music video for the title track, the featured subjects come from Đồng’s real-life connections, from the rotund black-spotted cat to Nhà của Thái, his production team’s studio.

“Narrative-driven” is an apt word to describe Thành Đồng's music.

“Trong im ở lặng” means “Within the solitude” in Vietnamese, and true to its name, the record is crafted from the quiet moments in its composer’s everyday life. He shared: “When I have a lot of free time, I always try to think of something to do to exercise my brain. That was how this playlist came about, and there might be more in the future.”

The single ‘Ngày thảnh thơi’ (A Languid Day) stands out the most because of how it was created. The song is a “homework” from a creative camp at the Carnation Art School House in Đà Lạt. At the time, the prompt was to write a song about the feeling of ennui and acceptance. Coincidentally, it started raining in Đà Lạt, reminding Thành Đồng of the days of his childhood: “I played in the rain quite often, showering in the giant basin of the sky. At the time, I liked floating atop the water, so the sentence ‘nằm bơi trong bể nước’ [lying in the water pond] came to my mind right away.” This eventually became the opening line of the song.

Closing your eyes, putting on your headphones, and immersing in the music of Thành Đồng, one will surely experience something quite different, as his rumination often strays from listeners’ expectations. With a focus on life's very mundane occurrences, Thành Đồng weaves in insightful narratives and moods. A drizzling day in Đà Lạt can connect him to the summer showers of his childhood, and a flooded street in Hội An can inspire a sense of freedom, like floating atop a water surface.

Đồng gets his inspiration from everyday life.

Thành Đồng often employs rhetorical questions in his lyrics, like “Hỏi đàn cá bơi đã qua bao cuộc đời [Ask a school of fish how many lives they’ve lived]” in ‘Ngày thảnh thơi’ and “Biết mai về sau, còn có căn nhà ta thương nhau? [How could we know if the house where we fell in love would remain?]” in ‘Con mèo béo.’ These unanswered questions form the emotional connection between the writer and listeners.

How music can grow along with life

Doing what's enjoyable is a priority in Thành Đồng's music journey.

It’s often said that doing something well is not as important as doing something consistently, though Thành Đồng does both. He enjoys singing and does it as often as possible — while working, when at a traffic light, and of course, in the shower. Ten years after publishing his first tunes on SoundCloud, Thành Đồng now has an official record out in the world. Still, Đồng doesn’t treat it like a big deal, knowing that music for him is “just a part of everyday life.”

The utmost priority for Thành Đồng is doing what he enjoys. “The most important rule that my team and I adhere to in our making of this playlist is experimenting with making music and having fun together,” he said. Creating music is a complete process that results in something special for both us and the production team. To Đồng, paying attention to the crew’s morale is crucial. The songs might not garner millions of views like those commissioned by major pop stars, but they value positive feedback from listeners much more than arbitrary numbers.

When asked when fans can expect to find new Thành Đồng songs, he didn’t have an answer. Nonetheless, no matter which hat Đồng might wear at any moment in the production process, he puts the actualization and enjoyment of the writer above all else: “I think the creator must go out and live a bit to produce excellent work.”

Hanoi's Largest Indoor Aquarium Is Surprisingly Impressive for a Mall Attraction

2024-04-15T11:00:00+07:00

I am a champion of the public aquarium. For many people, the aquarium is the only place where they can meet marine life outside of perhaps a wet market or seafood restaurant. Some research suggests that watching fish swim around can reduce stress and lower blood pressure, and that seeing marine life in their (simulated) habitats can inspire people to care more about these endangered species in their besieged environments. For the serious study of marine life, aquaria allow biologists to observe the behaviors of animals that are otherwise difficult to observe in nature. Vietnam has a few public aquaria: the Viện Hải Dương Học and Trí Nguyên Aquarium in Nha Trang, the Vinpearland-branded aquaria in Hanoi, Phú Quốc, and Nha Trang, and a handful of others. When Vietnam’s newest aquarium opened at the end of last summer, I had to go take a look.

Lotte World Aquarium Hanoi, in the basement of the new Lotte World Shopping Mall on the western shores of Hồ Tây, boasts several impressive qualifications: it is Hanoi’s largest indoor aquarium (handily beating out the small aquarium at Times City), the largest touch tank in Vietnam (filled with 90 tons of water), and the largest curved aquarium tank in Southeast Asia (18 by 5.8 meters). The aquarium has a total area of over 9,000 square meters and all of the 67 tanks combined hold 3,400 tons of water. Within those tanks live 31,000 aquatic animals representing around 400 species from freshwater and marine environments around the world. This is no pet store or wet market. Now, with those dry statistics out of the way, let’s get wet.

It took a minute to find the aquarium entrance since it’s below the main shopping area, but once I was downstairs it was pretty clear that I had found the right spot. Admission is a bit complicated: there are separate price categories for children and adults, for weekdays and weekends, and for Vietnamese and foreigners. The lowest price (Vietnamese children on weekdays) is VND190,000 and the highest (foreigners on weekends) is VND500,000, so expect to pay somewhere between those two price points. Even though I’m American, after chatting in Vietnamese a bit the admissions staff allowed me to pay the Vietnamese price, which I really appreciated. The aquarium is open seven days a week from 9:30am to a staggeringly late 10:00pm so even the night owls have a chance to see beneath the sea.

Lotte World Aquarium Hanoi is divided into four themed exhibit areas: Làng quê yên bình, Dạo bước trên biển, Thám hiểm biển xanh, and Quảng trường đại dương (the official English names of each zone are slightly different than direct translations: Fresh Town, Beach Walk, Sea Adventure, and Ocean Square). The aquarium is linear, so there is an A-to-B path that visitors are expected to follow from the first exhibit to the gift shop. The central theme of the aquarium is a journey down a river from the mountains to the open ocean. Visitors start in a mountain village and follow the river down to a beach, through a coral reef, and into the open ocean, finally ending up in a café and gift shop. The entrance promises a very Vietnamese theme: the tale of cá ông, presented to viewers through a short animation about a fisherman, his daughter, her hat, and a whale.

As a historian who studies the history of oceanography and fishing in Vietnam, I was mainly interested in how the aquarium would educate visitors about aquatic environments in Vietnam and Vietnamese people’s relationships to them, but in this respect I was disappointed. Most of the aquarium’s exhibits, while impressive, were generic, and not representative of specifically Vietnamese environments. Other than a cá ông temple in Beach Walk, the theme of cá ông is mostly ignored within the actual exhibit halls, and very rarely do any exhibits directly represent a Vietnamese environment.

The first exhibition area is Fresh Town, which showcases freshwater life from around the world. Starting with a highland village of stilt houses over ponds in a bamboo grove, visitors follow an imaginary watercourse downstream from the mountains to the coast. Under the stilt houses live freshwater fish from around the world: some South American cichlids, giant gourami, tigerfish, and red-tailed catfish. A jungle room with tiny green jewels of aquaria nestled in concrete trees showcases the kinds of fish one can easily buy at a pet store: tetras, smaller gourami, angelfish, discus, and goldfish. The only exhibit here directly related to Vietnamese environments is the Mekong River tunnel, which is also the largest tank in the hall. In it, visitors can see some of Southeast Asia’s truly magnificent freshwater fish: Mekong giant catfish, Siamese barbs, basa catfish, and the non-native arapaima that have been introduced for sport fishing. This tank is the standout exhibit in Fresh Town. It is impressive, well-designed, and does a good job of showcasing regional biodiversity.

After Fresh Town, visitors arrive on the coast at Beach Walk, which in, my opinion, is the most interesting section of the aquarium. Exhibits here include a recreation of a mangrove forest, a large beach exhibit, and a large touch tank where visitors are able to touch a variety of marine life. Vietnam’s coastlines used to host large mangrove forests, which protected the coast from typhoon damage and hosted many of Vietnam’s important marine life. Today, these important yet vulnerable environments are under constant attack by developers and shrimp farmers, and the presence of an exhibit and some signage explaining the importance of mangrove ecology is appreciated — all the more so because the exhibit is home to one of my favorite animals: the humble and beautiful horseshoe crab. At the touch tank, aquarium staff supervises guests who want to touch hermit crabs and starfish and in the beach tank, visitors can see batfish, grey snappers, sergeant-majors, and cute little cat sharks that swim under the tourists at Vietnam’s various beaches. Above the beach sits a mock cá ông temple, to remind visitors that this exhibit represents a Vietnamese environment.

Following the beach is the most psychedelic of the exhibition halls: a fluorescent and blacklight-lit coral reef. It is supposed to be a series of tanks exhibiting coral reef ecosystems, but also a great approximation of how it feels to watch Finding Nemo on psychedelic mushrooms. The tanks are nestled in giant neon-colored coral sculptures, each one a miniature tropical reef. Clownfish, lionfish, cowfish, decorator crabs, razorfish, and other colorful crowd-pleasers are on display in the jeweled boxes. Almost all of the marine life in these tanks comes from the tropical Indo-Pacific, so even though the signage is never explicit about it, it is likely that much of Sea Adventure represents Vietnamese coral reefs. Vietnam is at risk of losing much of its coral diversity as various development projects and increasing environmental degradation affect these vulnerable spaces, so any chance for people to see and appreciate these endangered ecologies up close is much appreciated. Finding Nemo fans, this exhibit hall is for you.

Tucked away to the side of the hallway here, visitors can see behind the curtain and peer into some of the aquarium’s animal care/veterinary labs, as well as an education space called Lớp Hải Dương Học or Marine Education Class. It was empty when I passed by, but it gave me hope that school groups or perhaps interested summer classes could come through to learn a bit more about marine environments and how to care for aquatic animals in captivity. Even though I never saw it in use, the presence of an education space puts the Lotte World Aquarium above any of the Vin-sponsored resort aquaria. A few other exhibits here and there throughout the four halls interested me: one on marine soundscapes played sea animal noises to teach visitors that the sea is not silent, while another provided info on plastic and pollution. I lingered a bit at each of these, listening to whale songs, and so did some of the other guests around me.

Sea Adventure takes us into the open ocean and is home to the largest single aquarium tank in Vietnam. The centerpiece here is a sunken western sailing ship, ruptured and rotting on a seabed surrounded by sand flats and rocks. This tank is full of schooling jacks, batfish, and snappers, with some large Napoleon wrasses, groupers, stingrays, and sharks. The sharks are standard tropical aquarium residents — zebra sharks, white-tip reef sharks, and black-tip reef sharks. The tank inhabitants are from the South Pacific, and western sailing ships traded in the East Sea for centuries, so this exhibit could represent a shipwreck off of the Vietnamese coast. A tunnel goes through it, and a window inside the shipwreck peeks out over the blue. The sharks are the big draw here, but just the scale of the exhibit space makes it impressive.

This area also has a darkened room that holds three large kriesel tanks, a specialized tank designed for fragile free-floating friends like the moon jellyfish displayed here. The kriesel tanks are freestanding, giving the public a chance to walk around them and not only view the jellyfish from all angles but also view the entire tank system. Modern aquaria often conceal the various filters, pumps, and other life support systems necessary to their functioning, but this wasn’t always so: the first modern public aquaria in Britain and France were built with all of these pipes and tubes and pumps externally to show off the complicated systems to interested viewers. Though the rest of the aquarium’s exhibits conceal the complex engineering from guests, this glimpse alone can satisfy the nerds who drop by. If anything, the design of this jellyfish room is just too good, and it risks becoming just another trendy TikTok or Instagram check-in background instead of a chance to say hi to some of our oldest and most distant cousins, a place to ruminate on how far we all have come from those Precambrian days of floating mindlessly in the azure.

Ocean Square, the final hall, is more open than the previous three. Here, a viewing window with stadium seating and a Wayne’s Coffee provide a space for visitors to sit a bit, watch the fish, and reflect on the ocean. Ocean Square also offers sea lions dancing in their pool and penguins waddling around their rocks. Staff members occasionally give talks on marine life husbandry to interested guests, and a schedule of talks and feedings is posted near the aquarium entrance.

After Ocean Square, visitors exit through the gift shop. The gift shop is just a generic MyKingdom toy shop, no different from any of the others scattered across Vietnam except that this one is painted with blue highlights and sells perhaps one more plastic toy shark than most others. There are no gifts for adults and no books on marine life for sale, one last reminder that Lotte World Aquarium Hanoi is primarily the kind of place where kids go to look at fis, and any oceanographic education is, at best, a side effect of their visit.

Many other aquaria around the world do a great job of showcasing local environments: the Monterey Bay Aquarium is a stand-out, as are many Japanese aquaria, but even regionally, some Southeast Asian aquaria like the Viện Hải Dương Học in Nha Trang, the Angkor Aquarium in Siem Reap, Cambodia, the Indonesian Aquarium at Taman Mini Indonesia in Jakarta, and (formerly, unfortunately) the S.E.A Aquarium in Singapore succeed in taking visitors through an educational voyage through Southeast Asian waters. Lotte World Aquarium Hanoi does not. Besides the Mekong tunnel and the cá ông temple, any exhibit’s resemblance to a real Vietnamese environment is purely coincidental. A visitor who is particularly interested in learning about Vietnam’s varied and diverse aquatic ecosystems or long cultural history of interacting with marine environments will find nothing here worth the high admission price — a real shame, since besides the Viện Hải Dương Học, no other public aquarium in Vietnam tries to educate Vietnamese guests about Vietnamese environments or Vietnamese history. On the other hand, I understand that most visitors don’t mind that as much as I do, and even though I would have liked to see more of a focus on local environments and fauna, I did enjoy my visit enough to come back several more times.

Compared to other Vietnamese aquaria, Lotte has the most impressive visitor spaces. There is not much particularly new or notable about Lotte World Hanoi in terms of marine life or exhibit design when compared to aquaria and oceanographic research institutions around the world. Within Vietnam’s ranks of for-profit shopping mall aquaria, however, Lotte World Hanoi is a revelation, a technical marvel, handily beating out all of the Vin-affiliated aquaria at the Vinpearlands dotting the resort cities of the coast. At Lotte World Hanoi, the fish are at least alive. It does not have the august history of the Viện Hải Dương Học (located in Nha Trang), which remains my favorite aquarium in Vietnam, nor does it have the kitschy old-school charm of the Trí Nguyên Aquarium (also in Nha Trang), but for families looking to take the kids somewhere cool or for couples looking for a wholesome date, Lotte World Aquarium Hanoi makes for a perfect outing. Treat yourself to some sushi upstairs after you spend a few hours looking at the fish. Watch Finding Nemo or, if you’re up for it, Jaws on the night before you visit to get in a fishy mood. Just, try to visit the aquarium on a weekday, when it’s less crowded.

Social Commentary, Empathy in Nguyễn Quang Thân's Short Story Collection

2024-04-11T12:00:00+07:00

Nguyễn Quang Thân passed away on March 4, 2017, several weeks before I moved to Saigon. So of course I never met him, but I feel like I know him. My first introduction was via An Insignificant Family, the fictionalized memoir written by his wife, writer Dạ Ngân, which includes a description of the 10 years they spent apart, writing letters to one another from opposite ends of the nation, followed by their life together. In the years since I first interviewed her about that novel, I’ve been blessed to be adopted as her son; one of the greatest gifts of my life. No visit with her goes past without him being mentioned. For years, Nguyễn Quang Thân has simply been Ba Thân.

Photos of Nguyễn Quang Thân from Dạ Ngân's personal collection.

How to review a close one's creative work?

Since first speaking with Dạ Ngân at the living room table where she shared so many meals with Thân, I’ve met his sons, brother, and sisters; and visited his former homes in Hải Phòng and Hanoi. I saw the balcony where he raised pigs during the nation’s poorest times, gazed across the park near his office he would walk through every afternoon while taking a break from writing articles, and of course, traveled to the sites most important to him and Dạ Ngân: the Vũng Tàu veranda where they first met at a writer’s conference in 1983; the pagoda where they first kissed; the bridge in Cần Thơ where he cycled back and forth looking to recognize her clothes on a drying rack (and later memorialized in a poem I helped translate). I’ve been told his many jokes and wordplays; anecdotes about how he traded those pigs he raised for a motorcycle and confounded train staff in Europe; and the many views, mannerisms, memories, habits and preferences one collects about the people close to them. Learning the simple, intimate details of a person, such as knowing he likes to put fresh durian in his coffee or observing the humble ingenuity of the fabric hanger he made from twine and a PVC pipe can feel like reading pages from their diary

I offer this personal preamble to explain why writing this review of Chân Dung, a bilingual collection of his stories released last month, has been so difficult. How could I possibly separate the man from his work? How could I present an unbiased appraisal of the book that fits within the appropriate parameters of a review? Then I began reading, and all became effortless. The stories are works of their own vitality and power because of Thân’s prodigious imagination and keen desire to understand and describe the world around him without relying solely on his own experiences. This trait matches the way he was first introduced in An Insignificant Family; as having “the avid interest of a small boy who has just arrived in his promised land.”

Novels and short story collections written by Nguyễn Quang Thân from Dạ Ngân's personal collection.

Each of the five stories in Chân Dung was written and set in the mid-1980s and early 1990s and offers glimpses into the culture, daily life, concerns and preoccupations of the time via the experiences of ordinary individuals. A talented painter, a poverty-stricken widow, a rural nun, a disillusioned divorcee, the son of a high-ranking party member, the daughter of a hired driver and the lecherous wife of a wealthy businessman are among the characters readers will meet. The stories find many of them at important but not necessarily climactic moments in their lives, when they learn something about the world and, by extension, themselves. When reading the stories more than 30 years after they were written, some of the scenarios and details seem strange and distant but the themes of lust, loneliness, morality, and greed remain fresh, particularly when presented by a voice wise enough to know when to make a sly joke and slip laughter in amongst the tears.

Biting social commentary from a keen observer

Chân Dung offers numerous criticisms, mainly of society’s emphasis on wealth and official position over actions and character. This judgment is most overtly witnessed in the contrasting behavior of a chauffeur and his boss in ‘Thanh Minh.’ The chauffeur’s career is limited by his previous employment by the French, while the local official enjoys a series of promotions despite a dearth of intellectual curiosity and thus relies on his chauffeur’s knowledge of art and history to get ahead. The chauffeur’s daughter is denied books and movie screenings because her father is not ranked high enough in the party, while the official’s son fails upwards to a college degree and a comfortable job despite never studying. There is no justice or comeuppance in the story, and the struggle for position continues after death, via the corrupt and politically motivated squabbles over burial sites determined by cadre ranking. Still, the narrator offers the resigned hope that in the afterlife “our individual lives will dissolve into one another, to be re-formed into new and different entities which will be more suitable to that eternal world. Hatred and debt will be erased, leaving only love.”

Thân earns the right to criticize society because he expresses a sincere love for it and his fellow citizens in the stories.

The searing depictions of the upper class continue in ‘The Waltz of the Chamber Pot.’ The narrator, an unlucky intellectual, escapes poverty by working as a servant in the home of a rich woman. His position allows him to observe her engage in a series of extramarital affairs with men representing different archetypes of society including an old, lecture-prone professor who pontificates on the concept of “New Women” and publicly denounces Hanoi fashion as being too revealing while requesting his mistress wear a two-piece bikini from Thailand. When he is unable to satisfy her in bed, he blames everything but himself, including her western lingerie that “confused” him with its two openings — “nothing but a luxury product typical of the whole blasted system of democratic capitalism.” She replaces him with a young “bourgeoisie capitalist cad,” whose bawdy jokes, British liquor and masculine vitality quickly lose their appeal; he is revealed to be a boring, hollow example of nouveau-riche vapidity that would go so far as to manipulate the entire city’s hột vịt lộn market just to show off. Even her husband, a powerful merchant, is a cruel and vindictive man who views his wife as a commodity to be acquired via shows of power; the power he was given by a society that includes the underemployed intellectual.

Thân earns the right to criticize society because he expresses a sincere love for it and his fellow citizens in the stories. Often, natural settings serve as stand-ins for the objects of his affections. Readers grasp his sentiments for his nation via descriptions such as: “Under Mother’s direction, the whole family pitched in to break new ground for a garden along the banks of the stream; there was the sound of washing the uncooked rice in the morning, the sight of the runoff from the hard kernels flowing down the riverbanks like milk. Laughing thrushes warbled their song from behind the guava trees that Mother had planted.” It’s images like this and declarations such as “the truth of the cloud was really the rain,” that assure readers that a thoughtful and caring individual is observing the world in which he occasionally points out flaws.

Original publications of two of the stories compiled in Chân Dung from Dạ Ngân's personal collection.

Words from an empath

The satirizing of the rich and powerful is effective in part because Thân offers an alternative. The stories take a tender, forgiving approach to the poor with particular praise reserved for artists and scholars. In ‘The Portrait,’ a painter has the unique gift of depicting an individual in a way that reveals their soul. His life lacks extravagances and he expresses no desire for fame or high position, instead taking delight in the simplicity of an old water kettle and the doting presence of his niece. The serenity he enjoys as well as the love of family and friends suggests to readers that this is an example one should follow, for not only personal happiness but to achieve a just and harmonious society. This story, in particular, is one where I had difficulty separating the work from the writer. It reminded me of how Thân lived humbly and was happiest when his home was filled with the laughter of his family and friends who were writers, artists, scholars and musicians.

Despite the moments of scathing ridicule, the stories are not overly moralizing. Love and lust, in particular, are complex human realities presented plainly, not so readers can deem actions right or wrong. For example, In ‘An Autumn Wind,’ the protagonist has a sexual encounter with a rice wine maker as a way to thank him for supplying her abusive, alcoholic husband with the liquor he desperately demands, but refuses to work for. Her action is not seen as a matter of moral failure but rather an example of the unenviable realities that come with poverty and bad luck. Readers will come away from the book with an unwavering belief that unfortunate people should be viewed with empathy and we must remind ourselves that we cannot know what private miseries and hardships a stranger is shouldering. This applies to the characters in ‘The Woman at the Bus Stop’ as well. In this short tale, a man and a woman — who have both been treated badly by lovers and left with nothing but a distrust of the opposite sex — meet and forge a bond out of desperation. The ending, which I will not spoil, offers a powerful comment on the extent to which human generosity may offer solace and solution.

Further securing Thân’s rhetorical position as a qualified commentator on the state of the world is his frequent allusions to works of literature and history.

Further securing Thân’s rhetorical position as a qualified commentator on the state of the world is his frequent allusions to works of literature and history. Naturally gifted with languages, Thân knew French, taught himself Russian and English and was well-read across cultures and genres, as evident in his sprinkling in a variety of allusions such as Konstantin Simonov’s poem ‘Wait for Me,’ and Alphonse Daudet’s ‘The Stars.’ These are helpfully noted in the footnotes along with other necessary and interesting references such as Văn Mười Hai, the operator of a notorious pyramid scheme in the 1980s. Elegantly translated by Rosemary Nguyễn and Mạnh Chương, the book reads naturally in English and presents no difficulties in contextual understanding for those with moderate knowledge of Vietnamese history and culture.

By the time this review is published, I will have asked Dạ Ngân about some of the “behind-the-scenes” details for Chân Dung, probing for the inspirations for the stories and characters as well as inquiring about what she remembers from that time — Did he send her drafts? What did he say about each? Did his editors demand he change any details? But like you reader, at this moment, I don’t have or need any of those details to fully admire and appreciate the wit and generosity of each story. And you are like me in the fact that I’ll never get to sit down and have a conversation with Nguyễn Quang Thân as I’d wish. But through his writing, he will live forever and can continue to share his imaginative understanding of the world.

At Bùi Chát's Painting Exhibition, a Freedom to Feel Without Preconceptions

2024-04-04T15:00:00+07:00

Contemporary art can intimidate viewers. People often think they need familiarity with certain histories, theories, philosophies and biographies to appreciate a painting. I have friends who do not have a formal art education or extensive art background and thus think visual art is not for them.

This doubt and self-consciousnesses elicited by visual art is similar to the reactions I hear when poetry, the art form I am most experienced with, is brought up. “I just don’t get it,” they say with a deflated shrug and frown. In such situations, I stress that there are no right or wrong answers, no trick or solution; all that matters is how it makes you think or feel. The only requirement for art is that you approach it as a human.

A perfect opportunity to apply my not-so-novel advice is at Bùi Chát’s ongoing exhibition, “Vùng lụa” (Silk Zones). Before he began painting, Bùi Chát was a member of the poetry collective Mở Miệng (Open Mouth), and their raucous, adventurous poems attracted acclaim in Vietnam and abroad. Indeed, he is an insightful, evocative, powerful writer, yet, all 19 paintings in his new exhibition are untitled. Why? He explained to me that he didn’t want viewers to be influenced, or swayed before they look and form their own thoughts and feelings.

True to this desire, when I met Bùi Chát and his wife, Nguyễn Thanh Anh, at J Art Space last weekend, before he would talk about his paintings, he asked me to walk around the gallery and spend time absorbing the work. He didn’t want me to arrive at them with preconceived ideas or expectations. He painted them with a similar sense of spontaneous unknowing. Produced during the COVID-19 period when Bùi Chát was looking for peace and comfort within the day’s stresses and fears, he improvised the shapes and colors developed according to his mood and instinct.

The large oil works that mimic the texture of silk paintings (hence the exhibition’s name), filled me with a serenity, an appreciation for the immediacy of the present, gratitude for color, light, air and water along with a certain nostalgia for the future. But that’s just me. You must go for yourself. I promise you, as long as you go as a human being, it can be for you.

"Vùng Lụa" is available for viewing from March 21 to April 17 at J Artspace. Head to the venue's Facebook page for more details.

How Nam Cao Almost Ruined My Favorite Canal Cafe

2024-03-22T06:00:00+07:00

Spoilers for an 80-year-old story that every student in the nation is required to read: the dog dies, the old man dies, his son's misfortunes show no sign of abetting. Simply, misery abounds at the end of “Lão Hạc.”

Written by Nam Cao in 1943, the story is considered a classic of literary realism; a pivotal artistic movement in the mid-twentieth century. It’s unquestionably a great piece of literature, but why would anyone name a cafe after such a depressing tale?

Photo by Kevin Lee.

Lão Hạc Cafe’s breezy upper-floor balcony provides a spectacular view of the Nhiêu Lộc–Thị Nghè Canal along a particularly pleasant stretch of the canal along District 1. Convenience, happenstance and an array of memories made there have elevated it to my singularly favorite coffee shop in the city, after my introduction to it nearly a decade ago. I’ve long known it was named after a story’s titular character but only recently found a translation to read.

No air-con, a crudely cut tube taking the place of a faucet in the bathroom, austere wood furniture and shabby decor consisting of empty beer bottles, tube televisions, and record players: the threadbare aesthetic calls to mind Lão Hạc’s poverty, but in a whimsical, anachronistic way that can feel performative, as evidenced by people that select the setting for wedding photos.

Lão Hạc as portrayed in the 1982 film, Làng Vũ Đại ngày ấy. Photo via VNExpress.

When I reached out to Lão Hạc via social media, the cafe said they chose the name simply because they like the story and it’s a name everyone can recognize and remember. I appreciate the Nam Cao-esque straightforwardness of the answer, but it left me hollow. I vowed never to return when considering the incongruity of carefree youths in a venue flippantly named after a despair-drenched tale. But upon further reflection, I’ve decided that on each subsequent visit, I will make sure to pause to think about the story’s old man and reflect on how good my life is. After all, I haven’t just sold my best friend for slaughter and plan to swallow poison to have at least a paltry inheritance for my depraved son. Lão Hạc will have thus gifted me a sense of gratitude.

On a Boat Ride Through Nhiêu Lộc Canal, a Fish's-Eye View of Saigon

2024-03-20T09:00:00+07:00

Could your life in Saigon be made into a quirky indie film?

Are your afternoons spent rambling around the city with fashionable friends; snacking on photogenic pastries at comfy retro cafes; and swerving through traffic beneath shady trees, as a particularly whimsical band with clever lyrics and tissue-paper vocals titter in your headphones? Do you consider yourself awkward but adorable? Are your memories coated in the warm shade of brown unique to recycled paper used for expensive journals filled with handwritten notes and lists? Do you encounter middle-class problems and conventional challenges that can be addressed in a quick 90 minutes? If so, it seems your life is ripe for low-stake, small-budget flick treatment. And if this movie were to be made, then certainly a scene should take place in the middle of the Nhiêu Lộc–Thị Nghè Canal aboard a small boat.

The Thị Nghè canal exists like a seam; a thread suturing the city’s disparate districts together, and thus, it is not a part of the city itself, exactly. Who doesn’t long to exist in a liminal space, indulge innate alienation and assimilate into the marginalia? If you’re like me, you’ve often gazed at the canal with wistful desires to voyage out on it. But how? Finding and buying a boat, cultivating rudimentary piloting abilities, researching licensing and preparing bribes is a hassle and a half. It’s better to employ an expert. So Saigoneer took our recent trip on the canal via the Nhiêu Lộc Boat Company (NLB), the canal’s seemingly singular operator of commercial water vessels from 2014. You will pass by one of NLB’s two stations whenever you drive over the Thị Nghè Bridge into District 1 via Nguyễn Thị Minh Khai. The fact that you’ve likely never noticed it enough to consider a voyage makes them perfect for an article for our In Plain Sight series because they are particularly splendid.

Pleasure is the sole purpose of a boat trip on the canal. This separates it from the city’s Waterbus which operates on the Saigon River and was initially launched with aspirations of providing viable public transportation services. So while it’s nice to daydream of daily commutes to and from work aboard one of the NLB boats, that's simply impossible. It exists solely to bring joy to riders and it succeeds remarkably well with these modest aims. I’d go as far as to put it on my top five list of Saigon activities.

NLB has a fleet consisting of from five-person Phoenix rowboats up to 35-person yacht-style boats that it employs for a variety of services that include packaged public tours with food and entertainment that include music performances and opportunities to release paper lanterns as well as options to rent the boats with a captain on a per-hour basis. The latter fit the Saigoneer team’s needs and a Turtle boat (Thuyền Qui) was waiting for us when we arrived at the dock for an arranged (you must book in advance) 4:30pm departure. Between 4:30pm and 5:30pm is the best time to schedule the one-hour journey between NLB’s two docks — one near the border of Districts 1 and 3 and the other across from the Saigon Zoo — as the gathering dusk creates an ideal atmosphere, and atmosphere is the journey’s main draw.

Dusk braises the horizon in rose, orange and ochre. The sky smears soft light like a blam across the crags and imperfections of buildings that line either side of Hoàng Sa and Trường Sa. Between the roads and the water, wide strips of grass with trees offer shade to benches, exercise equipment, and sidewalks. The unmistakable scent of blooming sứ trắng hovers around the occasional bend. At this hour, nearby workers are heading home, local residents are walking their dogs, youths are gathering for gossip and horseplay, and street restaurants are opening for the evening. It’s as if the neighborhoods lining the canal have collectively finished work for the day and are casting off their uniforms for a few minutes of rest and unencumbered loafing before plunging into the hectic rush of Saigon nightlife. I’ve long claimed that the area around the canal is Saigon at its most charming and this is best witnessed via a boat at dusk.

In addition to the general vibes, a boat ride offers unique vantage points for viewing some notable city landmarks as well as personally cherished places. Landmark 81, that grotesque clutch of mismatched chopsticks, looms in the distance. The Vạn Thọ Pagoda, an understated and tree-shielded site of Buddhist worship kneels just a ways down from Pháp Hoa Pagoda, an ornate and lantern-filled spectacle near where our trip began. The bright blue Sawaco water tower, a curious insect specimen pin speared into Bình Thạnh, is likely to arouse inquiries as to its purpose from some of your fellow passengers. And then there are those sites that might not be on a typical tourist itinerary but hold private meaning for those who lived or spent time near the canal. For me, it is my favorite coffee shop, Lão Hạc Cafe; a beloved Greek restaurant whose owner still sends me the occasional random Facebook message and generously offers complimentary off-menu treats when I pay a rare visit; a particular bench near my old apartment where I would spend evenings reading and even the balcony where I spent COVID-19 lockdown watching the giraffes in the zoo. Perhaps we can only love a city once we’ve become attached to some of its insignificant elements.

Photo by Paul Christiansen.

Okay, so you can soak up the vibes and savor some nostalgic sightseeing if you happen to have a personal connection to the areas along the canal, but is there anything to actually do during the boat ride? Well, if Saigoneer’s behavior is any indication, the experience provides a terrific opportunity for taking selfies. Group shots, solo shots, candid shots, action shots; the light combined with backdrops and perspectives rarely encountered amongst tired social media locations make the boat ride perfect for taking photos. I would even suggest that those needing professional shoots (weddings, product launches, music videos, etc.) consider it.

The boat can jostle, so secure your camera while waiting for the selfie-timer. Photo by Khôi Phạm.

And since we are now on the topic of suggestions, I have a few. Bring food and drinks. If you book some of NLB’s packaged cruises they include dinner, but if you do as we did and simply rent the boat and captain you can take whatever you would like on board. Pizza buffet? Chilled beers? Selection of the latest novelty chips? Whatever your heart desires. Ditto for what type of music to play, but definitely bring some Bluetooth speakers and prepare a breezy playlist to accompany your trip. There is no need to bring cards or board games as you can satisfy such urges by inventing games that make use of the surroundings. For example, why not create a game that involves evaluating and ranking the different names and architectural styles of the various bridges you will pass beneath? Indeed, architecture buffs will enjoy them for their historical significance, but even the uniformed can enjoy debating the merits of various aesthetics. The undersides of many of the bridges feature original artwork, both officially commissioned and unsanctioned street art. Finding them feels like discovering Easter Eggs the city has hidden specifically for you and other purveyors of the canal because they would be difficult to notice otherwise.

And on the topic of objects being easy to spot, I wouldn’t suggest bringing binoculars. There’s no need. I took mine thinking I might find something neat along the way that demanded closer inspection but other than pulling them out once to attempt an identification of a dead fish floating beside us, I didn’t use them and they were rather heavy to lug around. Your naked eyes will be enough to notice floating detritus and trash on the canal, of course, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it once was. It certainly isn’t worse than any other public space in Saigon and shouldn’t discourage you from the experience. Similarly, word of mouth or past experience may lead you to believe that the canal stinks. It does not stink. If anything, the relative distance the space offers from the city’s oppressive noise pollution and general density of commotion makes the middle of the canal feel fresher and freer than just about anywhere else downtown.

Of course, as with many under-promoted and largely ignored Saigon activities, a boat ride on the canal is not without sources of whimsy. Most obvious are the strange, plastic-encumbered vessels anchored in the canal. One features painted plastic bottles assembled into crude pinwheels while another has a small hut built out of clear bottles. Like many sources of whimsy, their intended purpose is unfathomable. Another surprise awaits at the end of the journey, at least if you are disembarking at the zoo-adjacent dock. As we approached a large fountain system erupted. After 6pm, the jets of water would be accompanied by colorful lights, but instead, it was just clear canal water arcing up into the sky and falling back down unceremoniously. The overture intended for our arrival was a little pathetic in its lacked grandeur, like three people performing a round of applause in an otherwise empty conference room. It felt fitting though, as whimsy always travels with a lump of disenchantment in its shoe, like sand carried in from the beach.

Whimsy is never too far removed from danger, either. Genuine risk of injury is my fondest memory of a boat ride on the canal. Back in 2018, I joined a group of friends for an identical ride and midway through our voyage, the engine erupted in great flames. They pawed and scratched at the boat’s wooden roof while we rushed to the front with provided life jackets in hand and discussed who could swim and which side of the canal we should head for if we needed to jump off. Thankfully, the captain was able to put the blaze out with shirts dunked in the canal water. The engine no longer worked but we were able to float back down to the dock without a problem. It was a beautiful night.

Galuocad's Artworks Create a Universe of Very-Vietnamese Whimsy

2024-03-18T15:00:00+07:00

Staying in one place for an extended period can lead to what's known as the "boiled frog effect."

If the population of Vietnam is made up of 100 million frogs, then perhaps we are swimming in an eternal stew pot, and everyday, seemingly unrelated spices are tossed in, simmering gently, producing new flavors in the soup.

Artworks inspired by popular Vietnamese propaganda slogans.

From women transforming into “ninjas” every day by putting on sun skirts to feasting on meals laid out on newspaper spread across the floor, life in Vietnam is made up of the little quirks that can over time become quotidian to the indifferent residents who have lived here for too long. Then there’s the “boiled chicken effect” — a spinoff of the boiled frog effect that encapsulates the witty aesthetic of the illustrations by Galuocad (Gà Luộc Art & Design), whose nickname can be translated as “boiled chicken art & design.”

Hà Nội x Ghlibi series.

Through Galuocad's artistic perspective and expression, every movement of the world around is seen as a special moment. Everyday objects and events can be reimagined" to adopt new colors and lives. A tacky boy phố, rice cakes with anime eyes, Trần Anh Hùng cinematic posters, and a tea hill in Phú Thọ are subjects that seem random and unrelated, yet they all contribute to the melting (and boiling) pot that characterizes Vietnam’s eccentric liveliness, which Galuocad celebrates.

Hà Nội x Ghibli series.

Behind Galuocad is Dếch, a 30-something British artist who has lived in Hanoi and Saigon for nearly a decade. For Dếch, drawing is a hobby that keeps him “sane” after office hours.

Alice in Wonderland's characters reimagined as Old Quarter residents.

“There were a number of personal motivating factors for moving. I never really felt at home in England. My soul was not at ease. At a point, I felt like I needed to make a drastic change to find peace. I found that in Việt Nam,” Dếch explains to Saigoneer.

Dếch observes that his style “lacks consistency.” He creates artwork using oil paint, watercolor, and digital tools. “I do whatever interests or pleases me at the time like taking elements of existing works and subverting them, recontextualizing them.”

Classic movie posters redesigned, inspired by Hanoi's districts.

One of Dếch's advantages is his decent understanding and use of the Vietnamese language. “Language and culture are inseparable; they mutually influence each other,” he notes. Learning Vietnamese opened the door for him to explore the cultural and social traits of Vietnam.

But why Boiled Chicken over Fried Chicken or Rotisserie Chicken Art & Design? For Dếch, art is a way to understand life around him, and the idea of butt-naked poultry on the altar conveys much one needs to know about the food, beliefs, and life in Vietnam. Just as when looking at Galuocad's works, despite the innovative and foreign elements, one immediately recognizes that “this is a painting about Vietnam.”

Tết Flash series.

“To find an interesting subject, you just need to look around. Việt Nam is rich in tradition, culture, and language. Idiosyncrasies in daily life are amusing. There’s so much to see. So that’s what I looked to for inspiration because I was surrounded by it and it helped further my understanding of where I live.”

A World of Riveting Medically Inspired Magic in Vanessa Le's YA Debut

2024-03-15T09:00:00+07:00

Captured by Butchers, the “blackmarket bogey men who deal in rare goods,” Nhika Suonyasan is caged and auctioned off to the city’s elite. A figure in a fox mask attempting to purchase her is outbid by a rich family that carts her off to a mansion that boasts luxury beyond anything Nhika has ever seen. The family immediately commands her to heal a witness to the wealthy patriarch’s death.

Nhika, the protagonist in Vanessa Le’s debut young adult novel The Last Bloodcarver, is a heartsooth. Before being abducted and sold, she survives the streets of Theumas by her wits and audacity, hawking eucalyptus and ginseng as cures. She believes she may be the last of the Yarongese, an island people wiped out by war, genocide, human vivisection, and grotesque methods of torture. The Yarongese are, as Nhika’s grandmother would have said, the recipients of a blessing and a duty to heal. Heartsooths possess the talent to lay their hands on a body to cure it of diseases and wounds.

The devastations of war also bring dehumanization and disinformation to the fiction realm. What remains in the aftermath of the island’s genocide is a distorted mythology of Nhika's people — witches, necromancers, liver eaters. Nhika and her kind are maliciously referred to as “bloodcarvers, a breed that fell with her island.” Meanwhile, the bloodcarvers' ability to rend flesh from bone and grind bones to dust has been lost through the ransacking of medical texts as well as the massacre of elders. Nhika exists as a pariah, hunted by people who intend to kill her. Yet she is simultaneously coveted by those who hope to exploit her gift to heal.

A graduate of Brown University in Health and Human Biology, Vanessa Le breathes new life into the genre via her inclusion of science.

A graduate of Brown University in Health and Human Biology, Le breathes new life into the genre via her inclusion of science. In this YA fantasy, hearthsooths can turn off or on someone’s pain receptors, can “mute the buzz of adrenaline and stress hormones,” to heal herself or others. Le’s intimate familiarity with human biology allows her to establish elements of horror in the book as well. Bodies are exhumed. Photos of vivisections pass as medical inquiry. Mad science tips the sci-fi scales in favor of gruesome horror. And yet, Le does not hit the reader over the head with the grotesque. Its serpentine inclusion gives the reader just enough to grapple with the meaning of terror. While the inclusion of the horror genre does not overwhelm the text, it certainly is enough to let the readers know how high the stakes are for Nhika. Meanwhile, Le’s command of her craft means we need no suspension of disbelief to believe magic exists in the world.

The society Le creates fits neatly into the speculative fiction genre. In the steampunk world, automatons exist side-by-side with typewriters, while auto carriages and horse-drawn carriages populate the chapters. Sci-fi medical marvels abound in the novel’s segregated blue and silver city-state that includes sumptuous gardens residing far from Nhika’s squalor. A river that runs through the vibrant city allows junk sails to float into the harbor beside pagoda-styled roofs and domes with finials. Horror, mystery, and folklore blend as seamlessly as the real and imagined architectural styles.

The book author Vanessa Le.

One of The Last Bloodcarver’s most satisfying elements is its ability to weave folklore into the plot via small details that are rich in cultural subtext. In accordance with depictions of fox characters around the world, the mysterious man who wears the fox mask is clever and frequently takes what does not belong to him. The carp mask, however, references a more specific Asian belief. In Vietnam and nearby nations, the carp can transform into a dragon and it is thus not a surprise that during Nhika’s quest for peace, freedom and love she dons the carp mask.

One of The Last Bloodcarver’s most satisfying elements is its ability to weave folklore into the plot via small details that are rich in cultural subtext.

As an international school librarian in Vietnam, I find curating a collection that reflects the host language and foreign students to be a fun challenge. Paired with that challenge is the duty to have a balanced collection and not limit the options to narratives of war, or boat refugees, or immigration. Le does not include any of these already oft-told narratives in her book. For Le’s young adult audience, speculative fiction rules the page.

The Last Bloodcarver can fill important gaps in library collections that seek to provide “windows, sliding glass doors, and mirrors” to representation. Young readers get to see and read characters with their names, customs, and folklore, all while getting adventure, sci-fi, and let’s face it, a smidge of romance. Have you ever met a teenage reader who doesn’t like a smidge of it? Can a librarian curate a collection without it? Librarians that seek to diversify their collections with authentic voices must surely include The Last Bloodcarver on their shelves.

Lemaire's Campaigns Blend Vietnam's Street Scenes, French Fashion

2024-03-14T16:00:00+07:00

Stuck in traffic on a Honda Cub, but make it fashion.

In the labyrinthine road networks of Vietnam’s populous metropolises, motorbikes remain the most convenient means of transport to get you where you want. Bikes are the close confidants of nearly everybody from all walks of life, age groups, and fashion sensibilities, from Saigon’s coterie of masks–wearing Lead ninjas to French fashion house Lemaire.

In their recent campaign for the Spring/Summer 2024 collection, the brand — with designers Christophe Lemaire and Sarah-Linh Tran at the helm — unveiled a playful set of images featuring selected looks worn by models and locals while they’re dashing on the streets of Hanoi and Saigon on motorbikes.

The images, shot by Osma Harvilahti on site in Vietnam, showcase both the forms and functions of the new collection, which imbued the brand’s signature minimalist elegance with season-appropriate utility.

According to Vogue, they were inspired by a recent trip to Vietnam to explore the relationship between clothing and travel. “We like to design from reality,” Lemaire told the magazine. “Like everyone, we’re experiencing global warming and the need for lighter fabric, lighter clothes, protection pieces—and we try to bring that functionality to our work.”

The need for convenience and comfort in transit resulted in pieces that feature “breathable fabrics such as cotton and silk; fluid and functional shapes, from capes to reporter vests; technical features such as drawstrings; and, yes, water-resistant outerwear.”

The first campaign, shot in 2023, is titled “trên yên xe,” or “on the bike seat” in Vietnamese, and true to its name, a motorbike in motion is a unifying element in every photo, alongside other “street fashion” staples like sun masks, gloves, and sun skirts. Curiously, the creative team has decided to flirt with the law by omitting helmets in some shots.

If you happen to be in Paris, these photographs are available for viewing in person at an exhibition titled « a sense of place, a sense of time, a sense of tune » at the Lemaire flagship store on rue Elzévir.

[Photos via Instagram account @lemaire_official]

Indie Short Film 'Saigon Kiss' Is a Quintessential Saigon Queer Love Story

2024-03-07T15:00:00+07:00

Is there a meet-cute more characteristically Saigon than a motorbike breakdown and subsequent friendly assist from a stranger?

Such is the premise of how Mơ and Vicky, the romantic interests in the indie short film Saigon Kiss, encountered each other amidst this bustling city of 10 million souls. Saigon Kiss is the brainchild of writer and director Nguyễn Hồng Anh, and producers Nguyễn Thị Xuân Trang and Andrew Lee.

Director Nguyễn Hồng Anh (right) on set.

The film chronicles a chance encounter between martial arts instructor Mơ (Nguyễn Vũ Trúc Như) and dancer Vicky (Thương Lê) right on the street of Saigon — hawk-eyed Saigoneers would immediately recognize Thị Nghè Bridge as the venue for this budding romance to bloom. When Vicky’s scooter malfunctions, she is noticed by Mơ and receives the latter’s help to push the bike to a corner repair shop. While waiting for the fix, they get to talking and bonding over their life passions for martial arts and dance.

Nominating bridges as the most romantic venue in Saigon to meet new people.

Edited with a crisp, cozy palette that can pass for a Honda commercial, Saigon Kiss is a quintessential Saigon romance, from the setting, title, to how our queer leads meet. One could also argue that the fact that it’s a same-sex story is also very Saigon, the unofficial queer capital of Vietnam. A “Saigon kiss,” as the production team defines, is a small burn on the inner right calf, typically caused by accidentally bumping into the sizzling exhaust pipe of a motorbike.

Bonding over getting your bike fixed is way better than Tinder.

Saigon Kiss had its international premiere at the 46^th Clermont-Ferrand International Short Film Festival earlier in the year, where it clinched a Special Mention by the Queer Jury. This month, the short is heading to the BFI Flare: London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival in the UK. The team is currently working on a local release in Vietnam.

Nguyễn Vũ Trúc Như plays Mơ and Thương Lê plays Vicky.

“Saigon Kiss is an attempt to take a snapshot of a rapidly changing modern metropolis,” director Hồng Anh writes in the director’s statement. “Like the city, both protagonists, Mơ and Vicky, currently find themselves in a transitional period. Both struggle to find room for themselves to reflect. However, despite the ever-changing landscape and fast pace of this place, they find solace and tenderness in each other's company.”

Watch the short film's trailer below:

In Ê-đê Villages, Bến Nước Is the Heart Pumping Water Across the Community

2024-03-06T14:00:00+07:00

Ever since the beginning of time, Ê-đê people have treated water as a respected resource of the community. Water, in their belief, is the life force bringing about bountiful harvests for the villages.

In Ê-đê culture, bến nước — pin êa in the local language or water station in English — is a communal site providing water utility for everybody in the village. The source of the water often comes from regional rivers, streams, or groundwater reservoirs. At old water stations, water flows through connected bamboo segments, but modern sites now use metallic or plastic pipes.

On a trip to Đắk Lắk, I had the opportunity to learn more about this time-honored custom, just to realize that there are many things I don’t know. I set foot in Ea Tul Commune at noon, and after befriending the local police officers, Si Pha, the deputy chief of the commune police station and also a member of the local Ê-đê community, decided to take me to “greet” my first bến nước.

First thing first: Don’t waste water

“Before establishing a village, Ê-đê people often look for a water source first. Hence, this water station preceded any of us here,” Si Pha told me. Perhaps that was also why he led us to the village bến nước first thing after we arrived: any visit to someone’s house must start with greeting the eldest member of the household.

As I gingerly made my way down moss-covered steps, I saw a rustic water station with networks of green bamboo pieces of varying lengths and widths carrying water from beneath the ground into bottles and buckets of visitors. Beneath the bamboo, every stone surface is smooth and shiny due to decades of water flow.

The way to bến nước is a tree-lined dirt path.

When a villager needs to collect water, they would drive to the station, leave their bike and take a short stroll with their plastic bottles down to where the bamboo pipes are. The water retrieved will be used for drinking and cooking. Depending on the household size, each family often makes two to three trips here per week.

Surprised by the lack of valves, I asked Si Pha if it was considered a waste of water to let it flow liberally into the ground. He gestured to the paddy fields down in the distance: “The water will flow down there and irrigate the people’s crops, not a drop is wasted.” An example of nature’s cyclical creations was taking place right in front of my eyes, filled with life and whimsy.

A water station in Sah Village (Ea Tul, Đắk Lắk). It's among a few bến nước that still uses bamboo instead of plastic pipes.

Locals reuse plastic canisters and bottles to collect water.

Protecting the water is protecting the community

The majority of Ê-đê people and other ethnic minorities in the Central Highlands are dependent on local natural resources, so elements like earth, forest, and water are essential to their communities’ survival and prosperity. They are thus keenly aware of the need to maintain the water quality right from the source — the forest and fields upstream. The responsibility to safeguard the water is divided among villagers and “it’s a mission that’s passed down from one generation to another,” in Si Pha’s words.

At Ea Tul Commune where I visited, residents are very careful about what plant species to cultivate near bến nước. Crops that require heavy pesticide usage are avoided as the toxins will seep into the ground, tampering with the water beneath.

A traditional water station. Photo by Jean-Marie Duchange, circa 1952–1955.

Anthropologist Anne de Hauteclocque-Howe spent time living amongst Ê-đê families in Buôn Pôk and remarked on the local belief in the connection between the fertility of the land and the people whose livelihood it supports. Harmful behaviors that pollute and degrade natural resources will directly influence the stability and wealth of the village community.

According to a translation by Ede yarns, a collective of young Vietnamese seeking to preserve indigenous weaving and dyeing traditions, Ê-đê rules heavily chastise acts of environmental degradation: “Article 231 in Ê-đê law stipulates: the land, the rivers, the jungle trees are our ancestors’ trays, our ancestors’ back. Our ancestors protect the caves, the jungle, the K’to7ng and Kdjar trees” and “If the water is left tainted / The rice will not blossom / The millet will not produce grains / The people will fall ill / This crime must be heavily punished.” Those who dare to harm nature and tamper with the water source are also directly harming their community and will be punished in accordance with the rules.

A local woman collects water. Photo by Georges Condominas, circa 1947–1949.

Water plays utilitarian and spiritual roles in the livelihood of Ê-đê people. Photo by Georges Condominas.

The third lesson: Respect the water

Ê-đê communities in Đắk Lắk believe that bến nước is also a shelter for a water deity, yang êa. Keeping the station and its surrounding environs clean means maintaining the deity’s “home” so that they won’t be upset and impose plagues onto the village.

Every year after the harvest season, after the village pơ-lang tree turns verdant in preparation for blooming, Pô lăn (the village head) and Pô pin êa (the keeper of the water station) will encourage residents to clean local streets, especially the path towards the water station to prepare for the important water ceremony.

A water ceremony taking place today. Photo via Báo Đắk Lắk.

Information from the Đắk Lắk Museum showcases the details of this age-old tradition. On the first day, village members will clean the road and repair the water station. Participants are divided into two groups. The first, along with the shaman, organizes the ceremony on the road from the village entrance to the station, while the other group carries out the ritual at the bến nước itself.

The event includes a few offerings: nine bowls of rice wine and one or two pigs depending on the province — one black male hog for the bến nước ceremony and another for the ancestors. The shaman begins by pouring ceremonial wine into the bamboo pipes and chanting his wishes for an ever-flowing water supply. Following the chant, the shaman lifts the bottle of wine mixed with pig’s blood and pours it into the water pipes, which symbolize the home of the water-keeping deity. He will carry out the same ritual at water stations in the locality and at the homestead of the station keeper.

The second day of the ceremony features offerings like one white rooster, a bowl of rice wine, cotton threads, and rice. All activities take place at the village entrance and all daily routines like fieldwork, hunting, and foraging must be temporarily halted.

On the third day, after the entrance is open again, it’s business as usual in the village and families can return to bến nước to collect water. This water source not only exists as a link between humans and the Gods, but also as a venue for villagers to gather to prepare and share a feast after the rituals are done. Still, these days, most villages have shortened the ceremony to just one day, mainly for tourism purposes, but also because Ê-đê communities have changed in accordance with social and economic developments.

The shaman shares the offerings with villagers. Photo via Báo Tin Tức.

Nonetheless, outside of festive occasions, the presence of bến nước can foster daily interactions between villagers. In some communities, every afternoon, the local elders will gather at the station to shower. Oftentimes, one bamboo pipe separated from the others will serve as the male section, where the men shower; and a section with more pipes is reserved for the women.

While cleaning themselves, participants can banter about village gossip and exchange a laugh or two. Bến nước might carry deep spiritual meanings, but they can also just be a casual hangout venue for communal activities that happen every day.

The bamboo pipes of varying heights and sizes not only provide tap water but also act as “showerheads.”

A water station in Ea Tul sits right next to luxuriant canopies of tree.

Many of our civilizations began with a water stream, and their livelihood, culture, and production were more or less intertwined with the water body. Like an invisible thread, the water nurtures a special bond between humans and nature, one that I could finally comprehend as I stood at the bến nước at Si Pha’s home village.

Nam Jam Festival Returns to Đà Nẵng With Week of Mural Arts

2024-03-03T13:00:00+07:00

The Nam Jam Festival from March 4 to 10 invites more than 50 local and international street artists to create massive works of street art in Đà Nẵng.

The second iteration of the Nam Jam Festival is centered around a week-long effort to paint massive expanses of urban space including 500-meter-long walls along the beach. Most of the works will be centered around the Ngũ Hành Sơn neighborhood surrounding festival organizer, Not Pop, a local art gallery that hosts art classes and sells painting supplies.

Work by 5hadows at the 2023 Nam Jam Festival.

In addition to the live street art painting, the free event includes workshops, walking tours, artist Q&A, skateboarding, music, street markets and parties. Given the attendance of artists from around the world and the communal spirit of creativity, there will be a number of impromptu art endeavors as well. The Đà Nẵng Fine Arts Museum will also exhibit a collection of paintings on canvas and other mediums from many of the participating artists from March 6 to 9, further legitimizing street art as a cherished and valuable from of creative expression.

Beside promoting and celebrating street art and its surrounding culture, Nam Jam is committed to beautifying neighborhoods. In contrast to the negative connotations of graffiti defacing public spaces, the festival is making areas of the city more pleasant by picking up trash, clearing sidewalks and trimming vegetation.

More information can be found at the festival at their Facebook with introductions to many of the featured artists available on their Instagram.

[Top image: A work by Daos at the 2023 Nam Jam Festival]

'Madame Pirate,' Film Project Based on Asia's Greatest Female Pirate, Sets Sail Again

2024-02-28T15:00:00+07:00

Zheng Yi Zao “started as a prostitute, resisted the authority of the Qing emperor, kicked everyone’s bottom, and then got away with it... also she has been ignored by history,” explains Vietnam-based filmmaker and photographer Morgan Ommer for why Taiwan was interested in funding a two-part film that tells the story of the leader of the world's largest pirate fleet.

Zheng Yi Zao, also romanized as Sheng I Sao (Trịnh Nhất Tẩu in Vietnamese), was born in 1775 in what is today's Guangdong Province, China. In 1801, she married a pirate named Zheng Yi, and when he died in 1807, Yi Zao took control of his force and continued to expand the fleet to roughly 400 ships and 60,000 pirates. Driven by money and power, they fought the 19^th century's greatest powers which included the British East India Company, the Portuguese Empire and China's Qing Dynasty. They also played an important role in Vietnamese history as the pirates of whom she eventually took command were commissioned by Nguyễn Huệ and the Tây Sơn against the Qing Dynasty, helping to defeat the Chinese invasion of 1789.

“The greatest pirate of all time was not a middle-aged white man with a beard and a parrot on one shoulder. The most successful pirate in history was an Asian woman who started from nothing, built an empire and then retired. Not many people know that, even in Asia,” Ommer told Saigoneer in 2022 as the film's first part, Madame Pirate: Becoming a Legend, was preparing to screen at SXSW that year.

Official movie poster via Madame Pirate's Facebook page.

Now, nearly three years later, he is readying for SXSW once again, this time for the world premiere of part two, Madame Pirate: Code of Conduct. Ommer told Saigoneer via email: “Episode 1 told the story of how she became a pirate. Episode 2 tells the audience how Zheng Yi Zao was able to manage 70,000 ruthless pirates. She was an extraordinary leader, respected and obeyed by her people. The code of conduct is how she achieved this. The code of conduct protected women. We tell the story from the perspective of one of the captives who discovers a completely different society from the one she knows on land.”

Episode 2 will continue Zheng's narrative with Taiwanese actress Yi Ti Yao, again taking the lead and a similar blend of live-action sequences filmed using virtual reality (VR) technology and animated sequences that establish a fairy tale-esque vibe. A behind-the-scenes feature helps explain the process. For this interation, Ommer and his co-writer and co-director, Taiwanese filmmaker Dan-Chi Huang, used a technology called 4DViews, which allows viewers to walk around the actors during the performance. “It’s like being on stage in a play and be[ing] able to walk around the actors during the play,” Ommer explained.

Madame Pirate's Episode 1 screened at SXSW in 2022. Photos via Madame Pirate's Facebook page.

Episode 1 enjoyed successful screenings at world-famous festivals including appearances at the Cannes Film Festival, Kaohsiung Film Festival and the Bucheon International Fantastic Film Festival. Ommer is hoping for a similar run for Episode 2 after the world premiere at SXSW. Readers interested in this novel approach to telling an intriguing story should keep a close eye on festival schedules near them and the film's Facebook page.

Hanoi Director's Debut 'Cu Li Never Cries' Wins Best 1st Feature at Berlin Film Festival

2024-02-27T17:00:00+07:00

After Inside the Yellow Cocoon Shell won the Camera D’or award at Cannes last year, this year, another independent film from Vietnam was honored at Berlinale.

Over the weekend, the Berlin International Film Festival, also known as Berlinale, unveiled the full list of prize winners after 10 days of activities and film screenings. Amongst the honorees is Cu Li Không Bao Giờ Khóc (Cu Li Never Cries) by Hanoi-based director Phạm Ngọc Lân, which won the GWFF Best First Feature Award over 15 other contenders from across the globe.

The Best First Feature category was first introduced in 2006, aiming to provide support for the next generation of filmmakers. The winner is awarded EUR50,000, to be divided between the director and producer, while the director will also receive a high-quality viewfinder. Cu Li Không Bao Giờ Khóc is produced by Nghiêm Quỳnh Trang and Trần Thị Bích Ngọc, and tells an intergenerational story of loss and uncertainties.

Nguyện (NSND Minh Châu, left) and Quang (Xuân An, right).

The plot revolves around Nguyện (NSND Minh Châu), a middle-aged Vietnamese woman who has to return to Berlin after her German ex-husband passes away to retrieve his ashes and a pygmy slow loris, or cu li in Vietnamese, the only thing he left her. Upon returning home, she discovers that her niece, Vân (Hà Phương) is rushing to have a shotgun wedding with her lover, Quang (Xuân An). The contrasting threads of solemn loss and precarious new beginnings intermingle in the film’s contemplative pace of storytelling.

Cu li is a small primate native to the Indochinese Peninsula.

Born and raised in Hanoi, Phạm Ngọc Lân graduated with a degree in urban planning at the Hanoi University of Architecture, before exploring his passion in filmmaking. The Cu Li film project has been on his mind since 2017. Lân is no stranger to Berlinale, however, as two of his short films — Another City (2016) and Blessed Land (2019) — were presented in previous festival seasons.

The Berlin International Film Festival (Internationale Filmfestspiele Berlin) is one of Europe’s three most prestigious film festivals, alongside the Venice Film Festival (Italy) and Cannes Film Festival (France).