In the monochrome heart of Hanoi, a bereaved woman redefines home, family, and enduring bonds in a poignant exploration of identity and belonging. Staff Writer Tan Yan An reflects on the critical Cu Li Never Cries.

Cu Li Never Cries (2024) is Vietnamese director Pham Ngoc Lâ’s striking feature debut—a tender, introspective film that follows Mrs. Nguyện (Minh Chau) as she returns to Hanoi after  her estranged husband dies. Aside from his ashes, she  arrives carrying a peculiar keepsake: a pygmy slow loris named Cu Li, a creature as enigmatic and unhurried as the film itself. The film won the Best First Feature Award at the Berlinale 2024. The cinematic work weaves together themes of identity, loss, and connection against an achromatic tapestry of past and present.

Initially, the film draws us into a world of quiet estrangement. Hanoi, once familiar to Mrs. Nguyện, is now an alien landscape. Her niece, Vân (Ha-Phuong), is now a young woman approaching marriage. Yet, the film resists straightforward narratives of homecoming or reconciliation. Instead, it explores the fragile dance between memory and reality, inviting viewers to reflect on how the past shapes—and sometimes haunts—our present selves.

At its heart, Cu Li Never Cries is a meditation on slowness: the gradual unraveling of emotions, the bridging of generational divides, and the steady rediscovery of self. The film’s deliberate pacing mirrors these thematic concerns, capturing slowness in the mundane rhythms of life—train rides, motorcycle journeys, and moments of stillness that feel both fleeting and eternal.

The titular Cu Li, a slow loris that was her late husband’s pet, is an eerily silent spectator throughout the film. Its wide, unblinking eyes seem to absorb the unfolding domestic drama with an almost otherworldly intensity, as if embodying the spectral presence of Mr. Nguyện, silently watching over the household. Initially a passive figure, the loris gradually melds into the domestic space, reappearing at pivotal moments as Mrs. Nguyện confronts her past. Cu Li is a divisive presence—met with disdain or unease by some characters, yet evoking moments of unexpected tenderness from Mrs. Nguyện. Native to Southeast Asia yet displaced to Europe, Cu Li mirrors Mrs. Nguyện’s own sense of dislocation, embodying poignant questions about belonging, identity, and the meaning of home.

Lâ’s decision to shoot in grayscale is masterful, imbuing the film with a dreamlike quality. Every frame feels suspended between memory and the present—compelling us to focus on the textures of relationships and the shades of emotion, rather than the distractions of color. Is this a story of reconciliation, or merely a snapshot of lives lived in parallel? The film offers no easy answers, and therein lies its beauty.

Minh Chau delivers a powerhouse performance as Mrs. Nguyện. At first, her silence feels impenetrable — a shell-shocked widow navigating an unfamiliar world and an uncertain present. Yet, her sharpness emerges in moments of vulnerability, such as when she pointedly asks Vân if her wedding date is being rushed due to pregnancy. Ha-Phuong, in turn, brings nuanced depth to Vân, portraying the quiet struggles of a young woman yearning for intimacy while also seeking love and understanding from Mrs Nguyện.

Both characters harbour secrets, their inner worlds revealed only in fragments. Mrs Nguyện’s enigmatic past and Vân’s private relationship with her fiancé, Quang (Xuan An Ngo), underscore the emotional gaps between Nguyện and Vân, even as they remain each other’s only family.

The film’s meditative pace allows viewers to sit with the discomfort of unspoken words and unresolved tensions. Their guarded conversations reflect a relationship castrated by persistent conflict which voids connection —as if both are speaking through walls they’ve built to protect themselves.

Vân’s marriage to Quang, which should be a source of joy, is instead clouded by tension. Quang’s unreliability as a partner becomes apparent, through a whirlwind of domestic incidents.

Ultimately, Cu Li Never Cries is a film about the spaces between people: the gaps left by time, the silences in conversations, and the distance that sometimes grows between family members. Yet, it is also a film about the possibility of bridging those spaces. Both aunt and niece may never fully reconcile their differences, but their shared moments hint at a quiet understanding—a reminder that connection often lies not in words but in gestures and shared experiences.

For those willing to surrender to its pace, this film is nothing short of a revelation. Let Pham Ngoc Lâ’s tender vision inspire you to sit with the silence, the questions, and the quiet truths of being human.

Cu Li Never Cries will screen again on 6 December (Friday), 2PM at Oldham Theatre. As part of SGIFF, the film screened for the first time at the National Gallery Singapore last weekend.