Viet and Nam

"Leave the light on. It's easier for me to dream."

The opening shot of Viet and Nam, writer-director Truong Minh Quý's sophomore film, is a feat of cinematic restraint. Nearly imperceivable white specs of dust begin to appear, few and far between, drifting from the top of a pitch-black screen to the bottom, where the faintest trace of something can be made out in the swallowing darkness. The sound design is cavernous and close, heaving with breath and trickling with the noise of running water. A boy incrementally appears, walking gradually from one corner of the screen to the other. He has another boy on his back. A dream is gently relayed in voiceover. Then, without the frame ever having truly revealed itself, it's gone.

In between face-smashingly passionate makeout sessions Viet and Nam retrace their dreams in the still of the mine to swooning effect, and it feels like this is all happening in outer space, as if time is infinite, the boys' love eternal. Minh Quý's slow-cinema sensibilities are nothing short of spellbinding, the trance of rumination within reason enough to seek it out. And if that's not enough, go for the best final shot of the year: a breath-stealing beauty that will leave you frozen in your seat even after the credits are over.

Read full review on The Film Stage.