It’s been a long time ago since I saw the Oscar-nominated & Cannes prize-winning) film The Scent of Green Papaya (L'Odeur de la Papaye Verte, 1993) in the theater. So, I’m glad I caught it again a while ago. It’s directed by Anh-Hung Tran and stars his wife Yen-Khe Tran Nu. The plot revolves about a young peasant girl, Mui, who is hired as a servant in a shopkeeper’s family in Saigon. We’re made clear that it’s 1951, i.e., time of the First Indochina War – and throughout we hear sirens announcing the curfew and airplanes flying overhead. Mui performs her chores diligently and obediently; she’s inquisitive, taking in everything around her – the sounds of birds and insects, the music made around the house, the smell of food and the scent of the green papaya growing on the tree in the courtyard; she keeps two crickets in a little bamboo cage as pets; and she silently endures continuous taunts by the family’s youngest son. On the surface, the story is tranquil, scenes take their time, the camera lingers on plants, fruits and leaves, insects, toads and birds. The first half hour is merely introductory, getting to know who’s who.
But the tension and violence that we hear in the air also makes its way into the home. The boys torture ants and lizards; the grand-mother continually prays in mourning for the loss of her husband and her granddaughter (who would have been Mui’s age); the father has a habit of leaving without a trace for days or weeks, taking with him the family money; the mother tells Mui she is like a daughter to her (yet keeps her as a servant). Then the husband is found dead. Gradually the mother has to sell more and more possessions as they cannot make sufficient money selling cloth at the shop on the street side of the house. Women in this film suffer in silence. The music is incredible, it’s often hard to tell if we are listening to someone playing around the house or if it’s the supporting soundtrack; sometimes cellos mimic the planes in the air, or violins imitate the curfew sirens.
And so the silent tranquility interweaves with the violent undercurrent within the family and outside in Vietnam.
Ten years later, 1961, Mui (now 20) is sent to work for a family friend as they can no longer support her. Mui has admired him all these years. He’s a trained pianist and about to be engaged to a woman who’s the only modern individual in the story: she a frivolous trollop; not much of a poster-girl for liberated Vietnamese women. Soon the man is drawn to Mui, breaks off with his fiancée and begins a relationship with Mui. He teaches her to read and write, and soon Mui is pregnant with child. To me, the ending is as abrupt as it’s unsatisfying... It’s almost tagged on as an afterthought. The romanticized view of women sympathizes with their silent suffering, but the only alternative, a Westernized modern woman, flutters by like a pesky nuisance. Men are even more distant and one-dimensional. We never learn why the father kept leaving home with all the money, his sons just pass by, torturing insects or bothering Mui, and the man Mui eventually marries (well, I’m assuming the marry) remains a mystery: we only know that he plays piano handsomely. So we are left wondering what drew them together, other than that they are painfully attractive and charming. Despite all these complaints, I honestly think this is well worth your trouble watching.
But the tension and violence that we hear in the air also makes its way into the home. The boys torture ants and lizards; the grand-mother continually prays in mourning for the loss of her husband and her granddaughter (who would have been Mui’s age); the father has a habit of leaving without a trace for days or weeks, taking with him the family money; the mother tells Mui she is like a daughter to her (yet keeps her as a servant). Then the husband is found dead. Gradually the mother has to sell more and more possessions as they cannot make sufficient money selling cloth at the shop on the street side of the house. Women in this film suffer in silence. The music is incredible, it’s often hard to tell if we are listening to someone playing around the house or if it’s the supporting soundtrack; sometimes cellos mimic the planes in the air, or violins imitate the curfew sirens.
And so the silent tranquility interweaves with the violent undercurrent within the family and outside in Vietnam.Ten years later, 1961, Mui (now 20) is sent to work for a family friend as they can no longer support her. Mui has admired him all these years. He’s a trained pianist and about to be engaged to a woman who’s the only modern individual in the story: she a frivolous trollop; not much of a poster-girl for liberated Vietnamese women. Soon the man is drawn to Mui, breaks off with his fiancée and begins a relationship with Mui. He teaches her to read and write, and soon Mui is pregnant with child. To me, the ending is as abrupt as it’s unsatisfying... It’s almost tagged on as an afterthought. The romanticized view of women sympathizes with their silent suffering, but the only alternative, a Westernized modern woman, flutters by like a pesky nuisance. Men are even more distant and one-dimensional. We never learn why the father kept leaving home with all the money, his sons just pass by, torturing insects or bothering Mui, and the man Mui eventually marries (well, I’m assuming the marry) remains a mystery: we only know that he plays piano handsomely. So we are left wondering what drew them together, other than that they are painfully attractive and charming. Despite all these complaints, I honestly think this is well worth your trouble watching.
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