SGIFF Review: Don’t Cry, Butterfly (2024)

Duong Dieu Linh’s debut feature film is one of the best at the Festival and heralds the arrival of an original, talented, and sensitive filmmaker, President Daryl Cheong writes.

With two deserved awards at the 81st Venice International Film Festival, Duong Dieu Linh’s feature film debut Don’t Cry, Butterfly is one of the most outstanding films at this year’s Singapore International Film Festival. 

When wedding-planner mother Tâm (Tú Oanh) discovers her husband Thành’s (Lê Vũ Long) infidelity, she seeks out spiritual guidance to gain him back. Amid voodoo and black magic, Tâm struggles to discover her own identity independent of her family members. In parallel, Tâm’s daughter, Hà (Nguyễn Nam Linh), dreams of moving abroad for her studies alongside her drum-playing best friend, Trọng (Bùi Thạc Phong). 

Perhaps the best element of the film, and also demonstrative proof of Linh’s talents, is the pointed but sensitive treatment of comedy in her film. Finding humour in the seriousness of her protagonist’s mid-life crisis, Linh reveals an ability to grapple with the contradictory nature of existence between comedy and tragedy. 

Tâm’s best friends encourage Tâm to cut off her husband’s dick as one of their children sings a song about heartbreak in the background. An administrator asks for a deposit after telling Tâm the spiritual master would not take any donations or money for the voodoo. These moments of sharp comedy textures the film with refreshing honesty, while never going too much to take away from the central conflicts of the story. Simultaneously, it layers the thematic concerns with sharpness and sensitivity. This rare control of comedy amid tragedy speaks to Linh’s prowess as a filmmaker. 

Linh’s unique perspective comes through in her integration of absurdism into her film, similar to her earlier short films Sweet, Salty (2019) and A Trip to Heaven (2020). The moment Tâm is confronted by Hà about the infidelity when she rides home from work is marked by some unique absurdity: With the whole nation tuning in to a match with Vietnam’s national football team, Tâm stops in the middle of the streets as roadside restaurants next to her are filled with cheering patriots. As Tâm breaks into despondence, the football announcer switches from football commentary to a meta-commentary about Tâm’s possible response. As she resigns herself to her fate, the supporters cheer. 

These moments of absurdism come and go throughout the film. Yet, its inexplicable and transient nature lends strength to the inexpressible emotions of the characters. Tâm’s loss is expressed through football commentary, and Hà’s confusion is expressed through vertigo and disappearance. In reflecting an Asian society so used to stoicism and manifested in a film depicting the consequences of male reticence on manhood, family, and the women around him, such absurdism’s unique ability to express the inexpressible must be commended. 

During the film’s post-screening Question-and-Answer, Linh mentioned her collaborative working style that favours finding discovery and answers through collaboration over dictated directions. The fruits of this labour are evident. Tú Oanh’s leading performance is tonally perfect, balancing her character’s depth and contradictions flawlessly — sometimes within a single scene. An early scene of her managing a wedding rehearsal amid her own turmoil is outstanding and unforgettable. 

On the technical side, Lim Ting Li’s sound work is exceptional. With the rich Hanoi landscape heard in its playing children, chaotic traffic and shouting people, contrasted with the suffocating humidity and silence of the home, Lim’s attention to detail creates a vivid Hanoi that renders its tensions visceral and real. Without spoilers, the final sounds of the film are eerie and hallowed, made all the more fun and captivating when the credits roll to reveal that they were produced by Lim herself. 

Where most audiences perhaps tune out from the film’s unique artistry is the shift into surrealism and horror elements in the film’s final act. On the surface, such generic shifts contradict the emotional truths and sincerity in the story’s first two thirds. Furthermore, as opposed to resolving the marital and familial concerns through responses rooted in realism, the inclinations towards surrealism could be interpreted as easy resolutions for difficult themes and emotions engendered by the earlier storytelling. 

However, I argue that this shifting of gears is precisely why this film would prove itself a classic in years to come. The expectation that a film can easily resolve and address deep-seated issues of patriarchy, masculinity, womanhood, family traditions, and discovery of identity is a misguided one. As most of us who grew up in Asian households would know, some of these issues are not resolved in direct address or even acknowledgment, but in the changing tolerance and possible acceptance provided in familiarity. 

Without commenting on the health of such a phenomenon, Linh’s treatment of the film’s ending is an effective means of reflecting this existence. When the real world refuses to budge against attempts of voodoo, confrontation, and consultation, perhaps all we can do is to find comfort in the surreal. Just as how the earliest post-war Surrealists developed their movement in response to the “rationalism” that brought Europe into the horrors of the war, Linh’s surrealism reflects a similar sentiment recognising the limitations of rationality. For a culture and experience as specific as the Vietnam of the film, can there really be an alternative to a resolution? 

In giving way to and accepting this surrealism, an audience too accustomed to realism could perhaps benefit from and find beauty in Linh’s unique expression of a contradictory existence — full of rage, helplessness, and still hope. 

In the film, Malay folklore nasi kang kang plays a key role. Credited to a Malaysian character, Linh heard about it while studying in Singapore. With a production supported by companies in Singapore, Vietnam, Philippines and Vietnam, both the film and its production speak to the breadth of Southeast Asian experiences and influences. How poignant, then, that the film retains its regional identity in its uniqueness and resistance to conventional logic in storytelling.

The future bodes well for Southeast Asian cinema. 

Don’t Cry Butterfly screened twice at the 35th Singapore International Film Festival. 
Local audiences can await its theatrical release, expected in January.