Sometimes, the most unexpected cinematic experiences leave the most lasting impressions. Hát Giữa Chiều Mưa is one such gem, and to be honest, I’m still not entirely sure what I watched, though I can confidently say it was an unforgettable journey.
This film, like so many others in the Vietnam Film Institute’s (VFI) vault, is almost impossible to find anywhere online, which made it all the more enticing to watch. Of course, there was a catch: no subtitles. Cue dramatic music. Now, this wouldn’t normally be an issue for fluent Vietnamese speakers, but, as I’ve mentioned before, I’m not quite there yet. So, a little team of us came together to tackle this one. Alongside five aspiring curators from Vietnam, I found myself in the VFI office, setting up what can only be described as a mini cinema (read: a big screen awkwardly hanging on the wall, with two computer screens below). And yes, yours truly was sitting in front of one of those computers while my trusty translator (and hero) was on the other screen, typing out the dialogue in real-time. It was chaotic, hilarious, and somehow beautiful, as the Vietnamese curators patiently joined in, determined to engage with this rare treasure, regardless of how bizarre the set-up was.
So, what’s the story? Well, Hát Giữa Chiều Mưa centres around a young girl who accidentally becomes blind due to an incident involving a man selling fireworks. The story then unfolds to explore her journey, her relationship with her father, and her undying love for singing. Despite the tragedy of her blindness, she holds a beautiful, compassionate heart, and while those around her seek vengeance on the man who blinded her, she forgives him. Her journey is one of kindness, forgiveness, and the transformative power of music.
The film’s charm lies in its simplicity. There are moments that made us all crack up in laughter, largely due to the odd, almost slapstick behavior of the characters (which I’m not entirely sure was intentional, but hey, cinema is subjective, right?). There’s a lot of random behavior that had the whole room giggling, myself and the curators included. But I think that’s what made the film so endearing. Despite its flaws, it felt real.
The lead-up to the final performance in the rain, where the girl sings to a captivated crowd, including her elderly father, is both heartwarming and, well, a bit comical in its abruptness. Without giving too much away (although I guess I already have), the film ends with her father’s unexpected death mid-scene, in a way that left us all stunned and laughing at the sheer absurdity of it. Was it meant to be tragic? Perhaps. But the way it was shot? Let’s just say, it wasn’t exactly the emotional climax I think the filmmakers intended. We all just stared at the screen, collectively unsure whether to laugh or cry.
One of the most interesting aspects of the film was its mix of humor and emotional depth. It’s not just about the girl’s love for singing or her struggle with blindness, it’s about the resilience of the human spirit in the face of tragedy, the complexity of relationships, and the joy music can bring, even in the most trying circumstances.
In the end, Hát Giữa Chiều Mưa is hard to define, but it’s precisely that ambiguity that makes it so memorable. It’s a strange, delightful ride that leaves you entertained, moved, and a little bit unsure of what you’ve just seen. It’s the kind of film that, despite its quirks, I’d love to share with more people, if only to witness their own reactions. Another hidden gem in the Vietnamese cinema of the 90s, flawed, funny, and surprisingly moving all at once.