There are films that leave you feeling gutted , then quietly, over time, they bloom inside you. Travelling Circus was exactly that for me.

The first time I watched it, I found it almost too painful to bear. The images lingered long after, the kind that gnaw at you, even in silence. I didn’t think I could return to it. But I did. Again, and again, four times in total,  because the film meant something. Something profound.

Set in a remote, poverty-stricken ethnic minority village in Vietnam’s Central Highlands, the story follows a travelling circus from Hanoi that arrives to perform its illusions and entertain. But beneath the magic, there’s manipulation. The troupe’s leader, charming, but self-serving, tricks the villagers into searching for mythical gold, promising wonders in return. The hope of prosperity becomes a tragic mirage.

Through the wide, unflinching eyes of a young boy named Dác, we witness the slow heartbreak of dreams unraveling. He becomes enchanted by Lan, a performer with grace and mystery, and through her, the circus represents everything his life isn’t: escape, beauty, promise. But reality creeps in. And it hurts.

Shot in stark, poetic black and white, the film feels like it belongs in the same breath as Fellini or Bergman, but Việt Linh brings something different. Something more searing. Her vision cuts deeper. It’s not just about poverty; it’s about the psychological residue of war, the longing for a better place in the world, and how easily hope can be sold back to the desperate.

And yet, what struck me just as much as the film itself was who made it. At a time when Vietnamese cinema was heavily male-dominated, here was Việt Linh, a powerhouse behind the camera. When I first watched Travelling Circus, I remember thinking: I need to meet her one day. I want to ask her everything, about the making of the film, about what it was like to be a female director in that era, about her vision.

In 2025, that dream came true.

On my second research trip to Vietnam (my first being in 2019), I had the honour of meeting Việt Linh in a quiet Saigon café. She walked in with elegance and calm, her presence carried a certain grace that doesn’t need to announce itself. She brought her husband, also a film lover, and we spoke (through my amazing translator) over coffee and laughter.

She told me how she had moved into theatre after an accident made filmmaking physically difficult, but her passion for storytelling remains intact. I asked her what it was like to be one of the few women directors back then. She paused, looked me in the eye, and simply said, “You just do it. It wasn’t about being a woman. It was about doing the job well and loving it.”

I was floored. Inspired. That quiet strength, it said everything.

Knowing this about her only made me admire Travelling Circus more. It’s a film of immense emotional intelligence and artistic control. A film that dares to be deeply human, even when it breaks your heart.

And yes, it is heartbreaking. But it’s also necessary.

These are the kinds of films that must be seen, restored, remembered. They remind us what cinema can be,  not a spectacle, but a mirror, a wound, a quiet revolution.