Trần Anh Hùng's Cyclo

It’s a fascinating yet, at times, tedious movie. Too much happens. Even for Vietnamese, too many clues are missed.

Though allowed to be filmed inside Vietnam, it’s banned from theater release, so few Viets have seen it. As the only Vietnamese-directed film awarded the Golden Lion, it’s been discussed with pride, but still not shown. That pissing scene, I suspect, still pisses off censors.

In 1996, I saw it inside a US theater. Twenty years ago, I rewatched it on video. With a third viewing this week, I understood much more.

Weird, what prompted this reexamination. Three days ago, it rained hard all night. Arriving at the café on General Uprising before 4AM, I noticed fallen branches in the road and on a wire. Café customers soon removed them. Someone figured out the wire was only telephone. There was no danger of electrocution. One branch was left on that dangling line so motorists could avoid it. When a street sweeper came by to get rid of all those wet, heavy leaves, Liên, the cafe owner, gave her an iced coffee.

Five minutes into the movie, a front heavy cyclo pitches forward, so two guys run out to help the driver. Once he’s back on his seat, they give his cyclo a push. No one says anything. Seeing those branches removed, I remembered this scene.

In the very next, a motorbike bumps into the cyclo, but the woman on it merely laughs, if only for a second. Behind her conical hat is a cop with a wartime artillery. What’s it doing on the street is not explained. There’s also white smoke and a Colonial era gate. There are thousands of complex tableaux in this dizzying flick.

Before we go on, I’ll give you a skeletal sketch of its plot. A cyclo driver rents his vehicle from a crime boss. After one of her underlings steals his cyclo, he has no choice but to become her lowliest soldier. Under her is a pimp who’s also her lover and a poet. The cyclo driver’s sister is a virgin who provides pseudo sexual services to rich clients. The pimp poet is in love with her. After a john has fucked her, in violation of service terms, he’s killed by the pimp poet. Always brooding, he’s not cut out for such constant nastiness, so commits suicide. Sick of his increasingly serious crimes, the cyclo driver also tries to kill himself. After the boss lady’s retarded son is run over by a firetruck, she allows the cyclo driver to return to his near starvation yet honest trade. The movie closes with him treating his two sisters and grandpa to a relaxing ride. They’re wearing their Sunday best, so to speak, and the old coot is smoking a rolled cigarette.

Even if you’ve seen this movie ten times, it’s a safe bet you didn’t catch half of that. Watch it again with many pauses. Digest it slowly the way you’d read the richest novel. As the best filmic portrait of Saigon, it will be dissected forever by those with the least interest in that city. It’s also a masterful examination of those surviving at the bottom. Trần Anh Hùng achieved this without lapsing into pat ideology. He got plenty of help from the screenplay’s co-writer, the poet Nguyễn Trung Bình. Together, they painted painfully profound moments that are also hilarious. Nothing is more Vietnamese.

Though it reflects Trần Anh Hùng’s vision, this film’s language and its significant minutiae could only have come from a deep understanding of the culture. Nguyễn Trung Bình deserves much more credit.

Each vignette and sometimes frame is already a work of art, true yet surreal and filled with implications. Let’s dissect a few.

No character is named. The star is a first-time actor, Lê Văn Lộc. Sitting in a Da Nang café, the director saw him ride by on a motorbike. The twenty-year-old’s boniness was perfect. The film begins with Lộc’s stressed face as he navigates Saigon’s madness. Behind him is a slightly blurred kaleidoscope of men and vehicles. He hears his father’s weak voice, “Our family owes much to your cyclo profession, son. It’s hard, day and night. We sleep on sidewalks, eat dust. Feet pedal, hands steer. Some mornings, our backs ache so much, we don’t want to get up. We stand and walk stunned and exhausted, our muscles and bones aching. Who knows where this will lead us? That’s your dad’s life. Like today, at the hour of death, I have nothing memorable to leave you. Do anything tolerable to get by, so you can face the world with pride.” It’s fair to assume these are his dad’s last words, but soon after, we find out his old man was instantly killed in a traffic accident. Odd, that “nothing memorable,” but it will be revisited at the very end. Though my translation can undoubtedly be improved, it’s closer than what’s displayed on screen. The cyclo driver is comforted and steeled by his dad’s imagined presence. Vietnamese houses are dominated by the faces of their dead ancestors. Their living rooms are shrines to the dead.

Next, Lộc asks a friend to read a newspaper article. He doesn’t trust his own comprehension. Reassured there’s a new government program for the poor, Lộc decides to apply. Without a word, this friend helps Lộc to wash his hands, then Lộc turns his T-shirt around. The back is less grimy. In an office, the man behind the desk is much better groomed and dressed. With his northern accent, he’s a conquerer, it’s implied. Southerners would laugh. Though underpaid, this suave man rakes in many bribes. Since Lộc can’t provide this, his application will be buried. Only well into this scene do we see stacks of folders rising up a wall. Brown and frayed, they’ve been there forever. A knowing audience would howl. To save money perhaps, this office is underlit. It’s a darkened bureaucracy.

Artists everywhere have often been criticized for being clueless about those stuck in shit jobs and living in crappy conditions. Just seven minutes into Cyclo, we see Lộc’s sweating older sister carrying water in a wet market. His younger, no older than eight, solicits shoeshines in a busy restaurant. Her removing both shoes from a customer might be slightly off, I must say. It’s normal to keep one on to prevent your footwear from being stolen. I speak from experience. It happened to me in Saigon in 1995.

Three minutes later, we meet Lộc’s white haired and whiskered grandpa. He patches punctured tires at a street corner. Entering a narrow alley on his grandson’s cyclo, his eyes droop and his head wobbles. They must avoid squatting kids then snake through a hair salon to reach their dwelling. Throughout this film, activities and noises overlap, thicken, compete and confuse. This authenticity had to be meticulously arranged. At home, the shoeshine girl washes water spinach, the cheapest vegetable, while her older sister cooks. When grandpa admits his back is hurting worse, she asks if he’s out of heat rub. Seeing another old man just feet away, he smiles and waves. Living on top of each other, there’s little privacy. Water from some pipe pours noisily between them towards an unseen sewer. Shirtless, Lốc’s long starved torso is even more bent and stark. A scale has been delivered to them by mistake. Charge people to step on it, Lộc tells grandpa. This service would require no exertion. No, the old man replies. Though it’s been a month, its owner might still show up.

Later, the pimp poet’s dad will beat him for daring to bring dirty money home. The pimp poet himself will stuff hundreds of dollars into the mouth of his girlfriend’s rapist. That drawn out murder scene on top of a highrise also has a comic touch. Scattered all over are clam shells from some drunken party. Maybe it’s just the film crew’s lunch or dinner?

Already, you can see how maddeningly suggestive is each scene. Now, let’s strip down the most scandalous and goofy. It’s prefaced by two gorgeous whores bringing cash to the pimp poet in the morning. It’s telling they’re paid in dollars, so their clients are either foreigners or very cosmopolitan Vietnamese. Later the rapist will also pay in US currency. The pimp poet hugs a whore because she needs it, but refuses let her sleep there. “Another day,” he mutters. From his third floor balcony, he looks down at them leaving. Not dressed like a prostitute, Lộc’s sister shows up. Until now, we’ve only seen her carrying water at the wet market and cooking inside her miserable hovel.

He opens the door to see her standing sideways. Inside, she explores a bit, so it’s her first time there. Her floral blouse and double braids are touching attempts to appear glamorous. Those other whores have been introduced to provide a striking contrast to this nervous bumpkin. For a second, we see her eyes are already wet. Seeking the familiar, she heads to the kitchen sink, as if ready to wash vegetables or dishes. What a genius stroke it is to have her break a vase before crying. She looks like a child caught committing a boo boo. After she says, “I don’t want to do that,” we hear loud, impatient knocks. “I come here today because you’ve asked me to,” she sobs.

At least 50, the tinkle fetishist comes dressed in a starched white shirt, gray tie, black belt and charcoal gray slacks. His black hair is pomaded. It’s a special day. He’s short and has a whiny voice, however, and his accent is Mekong Delta, so he’s a nouveau riche from the province. Prepared for action, he brings a one-litter bottle of Evian water.

After sitting the sobbing woman down, he stands with his hands on his knees, his face 16 inches from hers, “You need to pee?”

Still sobbing, she shakes her head.

After knitting his brows, he grins to encourage her, “You want to piss once?”

She shakes her head harder.

Staring at her distressed face, he raises his voice, “Relief yourself!”

Then, “You know how?”

Eyes downcast, she still shakes her head.

“Just piss!”

Having snuck onto the balcony, the pimp poet has been observing all this. He has to make sure the pervert doesn’t do what’s not allowed. Suddenly, blood runs from the pimp poet’s right nostril.

“Drink! Just drink! Just drink!” the fetishist urges. She’s crying through all this. He gets cranky, “Drink so you can piss!” Then he pleads, “Just go ahead and pee!” Sobbing, she drinks as fast as possible. Water slops messily. “Drink more so you can piss!”

Now he makes that urging sound Vietnamese moms use on their babies, “Pshhhhhh! Pshhhh!” He keeps repeating it. After sounding tender, “Please drink,” he grabs her shoulder in anger, “Enough! Piss now!”

Finally, she stands up to remove her pants and panties. No nudity is shown. In gleeful anticipation, the fetishist is framed by her naked legs. His final instruction, “Stand and piss, OK?”

Brilliantly written, directed, filmed and acted, this scene combines absurdity, near horror, humiliation and comedy. Bravos, especially, to Mạc Can. A seasoned actor, comedian and magician, he’s also published several novels and collections of short stories. Now 79-years-old, Mạc Can lives in Saigon.

His shifting expressions are masterful. Before being let into the apartment, Mạc Can cringes, cowers and whimpers, not just from some vague sense of guilt but in fear of being thwarted from his harmless sin. Pissing in front of another has never hurt anybody. He’s just buying her a few meals.

Three words are used for urination, “đái,” “tè” and “tiểu tiện,” with the last the most ridiculous. Chinese derived, it’s literally “small convenience.” (Defecation is “large convenience” and farting “middle convenience”!) This weird sounding creep is using the most polite term to demand a sobbing, terrified woman to piss naked in front of him. Since we’re often silly, hypocritical or considerate, each language has preposterous euphemisms.

In Vietnam, children are ubiquitous, so they are in this movie. After the rapist is knifed, they appear in a classroom to sing a Southern folk song, “Bắc Kim Thang.” Despite its cartoony lyrics, with an oboe blowing coucal and drumming mallard, it’s about a cooking oil seller killed by ghosts. He’s mourned by his frog selling friend and the birds.

Folk songs appear elsewhere as lullabies. About to slit a man’s throat with a pocket knife, the killer cradles his victim’s head and sings:

Autumn wind, mother sings you to sleep,
Through the slow night, your mom stays up.

Gió mùa thu mẹ ru con ngủ,
Đêm năm canh chầy, mẹ thức đủ vừa năm.

Though the next two lines aren’t sung, a Vietnamese should know them:

Summer wind, who’d suspect misfortune?
How dare these moons madness bring!

Gió mùa hè, ai dè bạc phận?
Chớ mấy con trăng này thời vận đảo điên!

Since it’s different each night, moon becomes moons. Despite its darkness, the melody is gentle, enough to put babies to sleep, though not a man with his mouth taped and just seconds left. On a balcony in the next house, a baby is being bathed.

Before singing, the killer also tells his victim about three war wounds suffered nearly 40 years earlier. Of one, “Look here, a bullet through the neck, nearly hitting the bone, then exiting through the back. Guess which is bigger, the entrance or exit?” The actor, Nguyễn Văn Đây, joined the Communist Việt Minh in 1947. His war wounds are real.

“I’m telling you these stories because I want you to know, I understand fully your thinking just before death.”

The victim’s jeans are ill fitting. In 1994, “cow pants” were still rare, so much prized. Overseas Viets would bring them as gifts. Halfway through his monologue, the killer dusts off his victim’s smudgy jeans before sitting on his thighs. Killing is most intimate.

The best dressed people in Cyclo are whores and perverts. The pimp poet is also very stylish. He’s played by a Hong Kong legend, Tony Leung Chiu-wai. The lead female, Trần Nữ Yên Khê, is the director’s wife. She reached France at age three. Trần Anh Hùng only got there at age 12 after a stay in Laos.

Vietnam’s horrible postwar period is recounted by the boss lady after implied sex with the pimp poet, “We starved then. No rice. People died. We loved each other so much. We’re sixteen and seventeen. We drank alcohol like water. We drank to cancel our hunger. We’d go to the market to buy shrimp paste. We’d pass back and forth a nail dipped in shrimp paste. We’d drink it.” The evocation of the super salty paste makes her cough, then thirsty, so she sits up to drink from a tiny tea cup. “After a year, the baby is born. He came out backward, and late. We thought he would die. The doctor said he wouldn’t be normal.” To comfort her, the pimp poet leans against her back then strokes her hair. Their bed is littered with longans, limes, mandarin orange rinds, cigarette butts, match boxes, a tea pot, upturned cups, an empty bottle of water, twigs with leaves and two ashtrays, with one overflowing. Though I’ve never seen a Vietnamese bed this messy, it’s true enough in spirit. A Viet audience would howl in recognition. It would have been a hoot to watch them set this up. I bet they were tempted to include one stinky durian.

“Cowardly, so cowardly! He ran away. Why must I call him cowardly? He was only 17. He’s younger than his kid now. After that…” Remembering what came next, she just laughs maniacally.

Cyclo ends with a recovering Vietnam. Suddenly, its palette changes. In bright sunshine are condos, a construction crane, people lounging by a swimming pool and men playing tennis. A middle-aged guy’s overhand stroke makes me think of my father before 1975. His game was no better.

A shot of the Trần Hưng Đạo statue is another inside joke. During those darkest years, Saigonese kidded the 13th century hero, with his finger pointing, was telling everyone to escape by sea.

Lộc, “Yesterday, the cat returned. Everyone thought he had died long ago. He actually looked better than before he had gotten lost. We weren’t even sure it was him. The last memory of my father, just days before he passed away, was on a Sunday. I remember because that’s the only day he could take a siesta at home. The cat slept on the floor, folded inside a patch of sunshine. On his bright face was a diagonal scar. As usual, my father slept with one leg propped up, his knee pointing at the sky, his foot swinging. I remember, as a child, I often looked at my father’s knee for a very long time.”

Only a poet would dare to end on such a sentence.