The Vertical Ray of the Sun

This isn't a film driven by intricate plot twists. Instead, it drifts, observing the lives of three sisters in modern-day Hanoi during the anniversary of their mother's death. Lien (Tran Nu Yên Khê, the director's wife and muse, unforgettable in his earlier The Scent of Green Papaya (1993)), the youngest, lives with her adoring older brother Hai, their relationship bordering on the uncomfortably intimate. Middle sister Khanh (Le Khanh) is married to a writer who harbors a secret life. The eldest, Suong (Nhu Quynh Nguyen), runs a cafe with her husband, Quoc, their seemingly stable existence also fractured by hidden complexities. The annual memorial gathering acts as a fragile anchor point, a moment of shared ritual before the currents of their individual lives pull them back into webs of longing, infidelity, and quiet desperation.

What Anh Hung Tran achieves here, alongside his regular cinematographer Mark Lee Ping Bing (whose work with Wong Kar-wai, particularly In the Mood for Love (2000), shares a similar lush visual sensibility), is nothing short of hypnotic. The film feels like summer in Hanoi – thick, languid, inescapable. You can almost smell the rain-soaked streets, taste the exotic fruits meticulously prepared on screen, feel the oppressive weight of the midday sun referenced in the title. Colour bursts from every frame – vibrant fabrics, verdant foliage, the deep reds and golds of interiors – creating a world that is both achingly beautiful and slightly unreal, like a waking dream. Tran has often spoken about wanting to capture the specific light and atmosphere of Vietnam, and here, he succeeds profoundly. The camera glides, often observing characters through doorways or windows, enhancing the sense of intimacy and sometimes voyeurism. It’s a patient, observant style that demands you slow down and simply be within the film's world.

The performances are key to the film's delicate power. Tran Nu Yên Khê as Lien embodies a certain wide-eyed innocence that masks a deeper yearning, her interactions with her brother carrying a subtle, disturbing charge. Nhu Quynh Nguyen brings a quiet dignity and simmering resentment to Suong, the elder sister burdened by knowledge she cannot easily share. Le Khanh's Khanh projects an outward confidence that slowly erodes as her husband's deception surfaces. The male characters, often the catalysts for the secrets and lies, are portrayed with a similar naturalism, their desires and weaknesses laid bare without overt judgment. There’s a profound authenticity to the interactions, the stolen glances, the pauses heavy with meaning. It’s acting that relies less on dramatic outbursts and more on the subtle shifts in expression and body language, drawing you into the characters' internal landscapes. It asks us, doesn’t it, how much of our own lives are lived in these unspoken spaces between words?

While often labeled the final part of Tran’s informal "Vietnam trilogy" (after The Scent of Green Papaya and Cyclo (1995)), Vertical Ray stands apart. It lacks the stark narrative of Cyclo or the fairytale quality of Papaya. Its focus is tighter, more intimate, concerned primarily with the emotional lives of these women and the ways love, desire, and obligation tangle them together. Food preparation becomes a recurring visual motif, almost a ritualistic act of care and connection, yet even these moments are often underscored by the secrets lurking just beneath the surface. It’s a film less about what happens and more about the feeling it evokes – a melancholy sweetness, a recognition of the complex, often contradictory nature of family and romantic love. Some critics at the time found it perhaps too languid, too focused on aesthetics over narrative drive, but for many, its immersive beauty was precisely the point. It debuted at the Cannes Film Festival in the Un Certain Regard section, signaling its arthouse pedigree.

For those of us who haunted the foreign film sections of our local video stores, seeking out experiences beyond the mainstream, The Vertical Ray of the Sun represents a certain kind of cinematic treasure. It demands patience, yes, but rewards it with a deeply felt, visually stunning portrait of life, love, and the secrets we keep, even from those closest to us. It might not have the immediate hook of a blockbuster, but its quiet power resonates in a different, perhaps more profound way.

This score reflects the film's exceptional artistry, its masterful creation of atmosphere, and its subtle, compelling performances. It's a visually breathtaking piece that achieves exactly what it sets out to do – immersing the viewer in a specific time, place, and emotional state. While its deliberate pacing and minimal plot might not be for everyone accustomed to faster narratives, its sheer sensory beauty and emotional depth make it a standout example of turn-of-the-millennium arthouse cinema.