One of the protagonists in Viet and Nam (Đào Duy Bảo Định, Phąm Thanh Hài) is on someone else’s balcony. They look over a Vietnamese that, outside of this house, hasn’t changed since she came back. She gets to advance economically in ways that Nam (Phąm) tries to do by reluctantly leaving his beloved country. A country that still has ghosts from the war ending three decades prior (this film takes place in 2001). A country that seems to physically heal, lush and green, but still echoes the stories of men disappearing. And a country where the love of Nam’s life, Viet (Đào Duy), lives, preferring to stay despite everything.

The characters Viet and Nam feel less like characters and more like figures within a painterly movie. Instead, they exist within something that feels sensory experience, hinting at a plot it tells in staggers. Those staggers, though, are interesting enough, building a fictionalized version of a real country. One where economy matters, where rich and poor exist as effects of bigger sociological trends, governing their decisions without them knowing it. One where these two coal miners and their families feel and hear the industry and express forbidden love. In Viet and Nam, the mundane exists as a part of life but also shows a man slowly saying his final goodbyes.

The Vietnamese psyche is on display in Viet and Nam, or at least, one showing up in films. Part of Nam’s goodbye tour is the both of them going to a big Vietnam War memorial complex. The complex has multiple exhibits, including one where human bones lie in a field next to tall mannequins. There’s an attempt here to make something like a stream of consciousness film that feels like multiple digressions. This act, focusing on the memorial, also feels like it’s focusing more on the political than the personal story. This is the kind of film where hints feel better because even international viewers know the history.

After Nam’s father dies in an unmarked grave, he enters a shipping crate, his fate unknown to viewers. And as these art films go, there’s another half hour here, as scenes add to the intentional ambiguity. A part of me felt some frustration towards this additional act in the already slow-paced Viet and Nam. But the part of me that won out is the one that concedes to the point its making. Human beings and their stories scatter to the wind and sea, and yet, they find love within themselves. We carry the scars of violence that we can’t remember feeling, and we stay broken or we heal.

Toronto cinephiles can watch Viet and Nam at TIFF Lightbox and Canadians can watch this in select Canadian theatres.