Director Doan Hong Le: “The feeling of beauty is the feeling of love”

In films by Doan Hong Le, you work with people who have endured immense hardship, such as the farmers in Dien Ngoc or Ms. Thanh in The Road to Peace. As a filmmaker, how do you ensure that you do not retraumatise your subjects? In documentary cinema, where pain is an undeniable part of reality, how do you choose what to capture?

I don’t believe pain should be avoided. If that pain serves a purpose—whether as a lesson for others, a shared experience, or a way for someone to feel less alone—then it is worth telling. I approach my subjects as someone who needs to hear their stories, because these stories matter.

For example, in The Mother, Ms. Dep lost her child during Operation Babylift in 1975 and spent years searching for him. I told her story in the hope that someone, somewhere, might have information that could help. At the same time, I wanted to capture a painful chapter in our national history—a time when a mother’s loss was not just personal, but universal.

Halfway through the film, I was fortunate enough to have a friend in the United States come across the story and assist in the search for the child. The documentary went on to follow that journey of reunion. It was a small-budget project, but it remains one of the most meaningful experiences of my career.

Revisiting such moments is never easy. I knew that filming Ms. Dep’s story would bring overwhelming emotion, but I also knew that people needed to understand what had happened to her. Without that understanding, they would never truly grasp the depth of her struggle.

I once read a post of yours about focusing on truth, or reality, as it is revealed in your films. But when you approach reality through the lens of your own sacrifices and pain, do you believe that reality remains objective? How do you ensure it retains as much objectivity as possible?

I don’t think I try to be as objective as possible. Everything is seen through my perspective—it’s not objective in the way a security camera records everything that passes by on the street. For instance, if I were filming a girl sitting and listening to me speak, choosing a wide shot would create a very different impression than moving in close and capturing her reaction to the story. That act of getting closer is my lens. It’s not about standing at a distance to admire a beautiful girl at a café in the afternoon.

What matters is how the filmmaker approaches their subjects—how their life experience shapes their vision, whether they truly care for the characters, whether they are close enough for the characters to fully open up and speak as they would to a confidant, rather than in the detached manner of an interview. Journalists need to be objective, but filmmaking is more personal. When I tell a story, it’s my inner voice speaking to the audience, not simply relaying what can be seen on the surface. It is something that comes from within the character, yet is told through my own sensibility.

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There are many ways to approach history, and historical truth is constantly evolving. How do you choose to tell history? Do you see your films as a way of educating younger generations about the past?

My goal is to challenge people—to make them question what they think they know. In Vietnamese society, the most controversial issue is historical revisionism. Each generation reassesses the past, gaining new perspectives on what happened, drawing lessons, and avoiding past mistakes. If young people tell me they feel confused, I see that as a good sign. Confusion drives curiosity. It compels you to seek answers, instead of passively accepting pre-packaged truths that are presented as absolute. When you are young, you need to question everything. That is what pushes you towards truth.

The story I tell in a film today reflects my perspective at this moment in time. When people revisit that same history in 20 years, what I say now may no longer hold true. New discoveries will be made, hidden truths will come to light, and what we thought we understood will evolve.

I want to educate young people by telling history in that way—because we need the history of ordinary people. The lives of people such as Ms. Thanh or Ms. Dep offer a human perspective on history, through faces and fates that are tangible and real. History is not about statistics in books, nor is it about academic theses. It affects each individual in different ways. By empathising with real people, we are driven to re-evaluate what happened—to consider whether it was right or wrong, whether things should have been done differently. That, to me, is the essence of educating the next generation.

In your efforts to tell these historical stories, do you ever feel discouraged when your films don’t receive the exposure or attention they deserve?

When I made Who Owns the Land? the film didn’t have a mainstream release, but I sent copies to the farmers in Dien Ngoc so they could watch it. They didn’t view it in a formal setting, but simply as a DVD, yet they felt their story was being heard. That was enough for me. I wasn’t discouraged, because the story wasn’t only for them—it had a universal element. Characters such as those farmers exist everywhere. When others in similar situations see the film, I know their struggles are being recognised.

In the past, during the time of Tran Van Thuy and Hanoi in Whose Eyes, films had to be screened in cinemas. Now, audiences have many other ways to access them. Some people blame the system or censorship for the lack of great works, but I don’t believe that. If you create something, it comes from within—you write because you need to write, you make films because you need to express something. Whether it’s a poem, a film, or a piece of music, it is born from an inner compulsion. If good works are not being made, that is the artist’s failing. You cannot blame anyone else.

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With The Mother, you accompanied the protagonist in her search for her child. Similarly, in The Road to Peace, you stood by Ms. Thanh as she experienced the moment of winning her lawsuit. Do you ever feel that you are more than just a filmmaker documenting a story—that you are, in some ways, also a social activist, fighting for what you believe in?

In many ways, I think that’s true. I was deeply influenced by my father as a child. Every time I speak about him, I am overwhelmed with admiration—for the ideals he lived by. He believed in a strong and happy nation, where people could enjoy both material and spiritual fulfillment.

In filmmaking, some people follow a path of so-called pure art, focusing solely on beauty. But I come from a journalistic background, which means I have always been immersed in social issues. These issues confront me daily, pushing me to question, to engage. As a result, my documentaries are never detached from the present. Even when I tell stories of the past—historical stories—they are always framed through the lens of the present. If I were to tell old stories with no relevance to today, they would have no meaning.

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Many say that the power of documentary filmmaking lies in its authenticity. Is this the aesthetic you pursue in your work?

It is never about surpassing the truth. Through cinéma vérité, I uncover nuances in people, situations, and circumstances that I would have otherwise overlooked.

For instance, I once saw a man selling rice in a nearly empty restaurant at dusk. He opened his phone and played a bolero song—its melody full of longing—while gazing absently at the street. In that moment, I thought: If I were to make a film about bolero, this is what I would capture. Bolero, in this case, is more than a genre of music—it is a feeling, an aesthetic. It represents moments that are sentimental, perhaps melodramatic, but deeply emotional.

It was not the kind of beauty people associate with love or music—the postcard-perfect imagery of a stone bench in a park, yellow leaves falling, a lone figure staring at a bare tree. Instead, it was a man with tattoos on his arm, sitting in a worn-down chicken rice restaurant, surrounded by rickety tables and chairs, with the street outside littered with trash. And yet, there was beauty in his soul at that moment—a quiet, unspoken regret.

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Aesthetics are always present. The real question is whether you can capture them in a film. Beauty does not lie in what people conventionally perceive as beautiful. It requires the empathy of the storyteller. Some think that Varan films are devoid of commentary, but that is a misconception. To be true to the Varan tradition—to cinéma vérité—you must be able to tell stories that reveal these kinds of moments.

But in films that depict profound pain or violence, where do you place aesthetics?

For me, it is about the feeling that remains when the film ends. What the audience takes away is crucial. Sometimes I watch a film or read a book, and years later, I no longer recall the plot in detail, but I remember exactly how it made me feel. For instance, I do not recall all the names in One Hundred Years of Solitude, yet I still carry the emotion it left behind.

That lingering emotion is what matters. After watching a film, the audience should walk away with something beautiful—not in the superficial sense, but in the form of love, empathy, or humanity. That is aesthetics. And not just in cinema, but in all art forms. Aesthetics is the ability to evoke emotions that stay with the viewer, compelling them to reflect more deeply, to make connections beyond what they initially saw.

Article published from the original piece in Tatler Vietnam, February 2025 issue.

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