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The Vertical Ray of the Sun Reaches for New Heights

Nguyen Quynh as Suong (left), Tran Nu Yën-Khé as Liên (center), Lê Khanh as Khanh. Photo by Guy Ferrandis.

By Justin Lowe

Vietnamese director Tran Anh Hung’s third feature, The Vertical Ray of the Sun, is perhaps more aptly described by its French title, A la Verticale de l’Ete (“The Height of Summer”) for its artful evocation of the languor induced by monsoon season. The film has less in common with Hung’s previous release, Cyclo (Xich Lo), the disturbing tale of a down-and-out rickshaw driver whose mounting debts force him into a life of crime, than it does with his first feature, The Scent of Green Papaya (Mui du du Xanh), an exquisitely observed period drama about a young woman’s coming of age in 1950s Saigon.

Hung displays a similar fascination with everyday details in The Vertical Ray of the Sun, but adopts a broader narrative, with intertwining storylines and several subplots. A meditation on the exigencies of fidelity and fate, the film takes an oblique approach to its weighty subject matter. Like his characters, Hung never completely explains himself, instead conveying meaning through the actors’ gestures and the subtext of their dialog.

Set in present-day Hanoi, The Vertical Ray of the Sun concerns three sisters, Lien (Tran Nu Yen-Khe, Hung’s wife and the star of his previous films), Suong (Nguyen Nhu Quynh) and Khanh (Le Khanh), who gather to prepare a memorial meal on the anniversary of their mother’s death.

Each of the characters is at a different stage in her life: youngest sister Lien is single and naive — impulsive and inexperienced. Suong, nearing middle age, is a mother whose marriage is reaching a crisis point. Khanh’s relationship with her husband is playful and vital, and she’s looking forward to starting a family. Hung, who also wrote the script, employs a cyclical structure, concluding the narrative a month later on the anniversary of the father’s death.

Liên dances with her brother Hai (Ngö Quanq Hai). Photo by Guy Ferrandis.

Lien works in eldest sister Suong’s cafe, where middle sister Khanh occasionally helps out. The three share an easy, teasing intimacy while concealing the most private details of their personal lives. Suong’s husband Quoc, a botanical photographer, is often inattentive or away on field trips and she has taken a passionate lover, unaware that Quoc has a second wife and family elsewhere. Khanh would like to keep her recent pregnancy a secret, but her novelist husband Kien, suffering from writer’s block, is not the best confidant and, she suspects, he may be cheating on her. Meanwhile, Lien is torn between her desire for a child and regaining the love of her noncommittal boyfriend, instead channeling her affection into a flirtatious relationship with her elder brother, Hai.

Hung announces the film’s leisurely pace in the opening sequence: Lien and Hai, who share an apartment, awake to the incongruous strains of Lou Reed’s melancholy song of regret, “Linger On.” Their laidback morning routine is elaborated throughout the film as it becomes apparent that Lien’s affection for her brother occasionally strays too far when she tries to share his bed, much to Hai’s consternation with her apparently innocent intentions.

During the memorial feast at Suong’s cafe, the sisters discuss their mother’s passing and her mysterious attachment to Toan, a man none of the children are familiar with. They speculate that perhaps he was her childhood friend, unwilling to accept the possibility that their mother might have had a lover later in life, even though she called out his name on her deathbed, much to their father’s dismay. “Mother could have never loved anyone but Daddy, I’m sure of it,” Lien asserts ingenuously, and her wiser, more experienced sisters seem eager to believe her. Husband Kien has been investigating Toan’s background and the women seem concerned that any unpleasant revelations may perhaps have unfortunate implications for their own lives.

The bulk of the film develops from this premise of inferred culpability that the daughters share with their mother, as it considers the demands and implications of love and fidelity. Hung maintains an unhurried, contemplative tone, occasionally verging on playfulness, throughout the film. His naturalistic visual style demonstrates an entrancing, painterly motif, as the shots linger on the colors and textures of freshly prepared food, the leaves of a plant after a monsoon rain, and the angles of his actresses’ faces. Occasional, ill-advised mid-scene cuts disrupt the continuity somewhat, but are not overly intrusive.

Unlike The Scent of Green Papaya, which was entirely produced on a French sound stage, The Vertical Ray of the Sun was shot on location in Vietnam, lending a tactile authenticity to the images and sound design. Cinematographer Mark Lee Ping-bin shows some affinity for the gorgeous compositions he created for Wong Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love, using subdued lighting and rich, saturated colors. A soundtrack that includes the Velvet Underground, Arab Strap and Married Monk, as well as Vietnamese folk songs, reinforces the tone of bittersweet regret.

The Vertical Ray of the Sun is a delicate, absorbing drama, but its intentional ambivalence makes plot resolution elusive. For those who savor the complexities of compelling characters and recognize the frequent ambiguities of intimate relationships, The Vertical Ray of the Sun proves a richly resonant film.

The Vertical Ray of the Sun, in Vietnamese with English subtitles, opens July 13 in Bay Area theaters and is rated PG-13.