Audacious, expressionistic, and evocative, Truong Minh Quy’s third feature takes place in Vietnam in 2001, blending a secret romance between two young (perhaps early 20s) male coal miners—Viet (Duy Bao D?nh Dao) and Nam (Pham Thanh Hai)—with the reverberations of historic traumas.

The film immediately captures the drudgery and claustrophobia of mine labor as the workers mechanically hack into the earth with pickaxes. The most effectively wrought scenes may be the moments when the two men are able to steal away together underground. The film’s seminal sequence frames them nude and coal-streaked, entangled against the glinting black earth, appearing as if they are floating in a starlit night sky. Their private, sensuous romance is at a tipping point: Nam has plans to emigrate by riskily escaping via a shipping container. Viet is too afraid to embark on the journey.

Almost an hour in, the title card appears, ushering in a second act where Nam and his mother, Hoa (Nguyen Thi Nga); Viet; and Ba (Le Viet T?ng), a man who once served alongside Nam’s father, seek to find the location of Nam’s father’s remains. Set in open spaces and green forests thrumming with insects and the music of frogs (which later become a significant image), these scenes create a stark aural and visual contrast to the sooty, cramped underground of the first act.

A psychic—dressed in black pants and a long, flowing pink top, her face painted white and lips red—guides family members through the hallowed killing fields, sensing where their lost loved ones may be buried. Before showing them where to dig for remains (another instance of people unearthing the past), she reenacts their death. A sort of ceremony follows, allowing family members to grieve openly. American films about the Vietnam War are largely told from the American perspective, so to witness this intricate depiction of devastating loss from another viewpoint is wrenching and revealing. (The film, which premiered at Cannes in 2024, was banned in Vietnam by censors for its “gloomy, deadlocked, and negative view.”)

Slowly paced, dense, and occasionally opaque, Quy’s film demands patience. Yet its vivid, entrancing imagery (shot exquisitely in grainy 16mm by cinematographer Son Doan) and its absorbing exploration of the ghosts of the past make it a distinctive, singular experience. It could benefit from a bit more focus and some tightening in its storytelling, but it nevertheless has a cumulative power—including a surprising and incredibly haunting final shot.