When Vietnamese cinema tells stories of ancestors: identity and the collective memory

In the urban landscape, Vietnamese identity shifts—perhaps not in essence, but in expression. Bi, Don’t Be Afraid! (2010), directed by Phan Dang Di, immerses the viewer in a world heavy with silence and brimming with emotion. In this work of Vietnamese cinema, identity surfaces as instinct, hinted at in the silences between generations and the invisible divides within families. It’s a portrait of contemporary Vietnam, where lives are lived side by side yet rarely intersect. Nothing is spelled out. Everything is felt.

In a similar spirit, Bo Gia (2021), by Vu Ngoc Dang and Tran Thanh, introduces Ba Sang, a figure familiar to many—a working-class Saigon man, quick-tempered and stubborn, but profoundly tender in ways he cannot articulate. His affection is wrapped in sticky rice parcels, worn sandals and concerned lectures. The father-son dynamic reveals a different facet of identity: that of the urban poor, where care is bound up in duty, and love is too often mistaken for control.

Vi (2021), directed by Le Bao, is a Vietnamese cinematic work of art with international resonance—an evocative reflection on alienation, identity and memory. Its central figure, a Nigerian footballer living in Ho Chi Minh City, finds himself adrift after an injury ends his contract. He shares a modest home on the city’s outskirts with four middle-aged Vietnamese women, bound together in the quiet rituals of survival.

In simple scenes—cooking meals, bathing in cramped quarters—the film explores human connection and shared identity. Vi tells the story of Vietnam not through grand gestures, but through life’s daily rhythms, capturing the cultural exchange and emotional landscape of those living on the margins.

Vietnamese cinema has yet to produce many large-scale works centred on legendary figures such as Hung Vuong, Lac Long Quan or Au Co. But this absence doesn’t signal a lack of ancestral stories. Instead, Vietnamese films often turn to quieter narratives—parents, grandparents, village elders—those “everyday ancestors” whose legacy is felt through rich, emotive storytelling.

When Ba Sang in Bo Gia quietly gathers tuition fees for his son, or the father in Mua len trau (Buffalo Wool Season) hands over a buffalo with unspoken expectation, these gestures transcend family love. They become acts of generational trust. Without invoking epic myths, these intimate portrayals reveal a deeply Vietnamese way of passing stories down—not through spectacle, but through living.

The commemoration of our ancestors is more than a public holiday. It is a moment to reflect on our beginnings—on lineage, on identity. In its own language, cinema echoes that remembrance, capturing national spirit in its many subtle, stirring forms.

For the younger generation, film offers a way into identity through image and sound: the warmth of shared meals, the hush of a mother’s lullaby, the unyielding kindness of a father. These moments do not appear in textbooks, yet they linger in collective memory. Vietnamese identity, if it is to be defined, may well live in such simplicity—and cinema, with quiet elegance, continues to preserve it.

The question “Who am I?” may never be easily answered. But in every Vietnamese film—whether set in a flooded rice field, a smoky kitchen or a narrow working-class alley—there lies a trace of oneself. And always, the ancestral presence is there. Not through monuments, but in things as familiar as breath.

Vietnamese cinema, in its own lyrical and intuitive way, has long told the story of its people through emotion, imagery and the fragments of memory. It is, perhaps, a way for future generations—no matter where life takes them—to remember that they are, and always will be, descendants of Lac Hong.

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