HBO and A24’s adaptation of The Sympathizer, a limited series based on Viet Thanh Nguyen’s 2015 Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, opens with an oft-quoted passage by the author: “All wars are fought twice. The first time on the battlefield, the second time in memory.” The epigraph (cited from Nothing Ever Dies, Nguyen’s 2016 nonfiction work) offers an explicit framework for understanding The Sympathizer, a Vietnam War-era story narrated through the prison letters of a nameless double agent (Hoa Xuande). The Captain, as he’s called, served as an undercover Communist mole with the South Vietnamese military as its General’s (Toan Le) right-hand man. After the Fall of Saigon, he was tasked with following the General to America and spying on the Southern camp’s activities. As a “man of two faces,” the Captain’s memory is both an asset and a liability, a double-edged sword that’s teased out during his imprisonment at the series’ start. “Comrade, everything I did was to advance the cause,” he says in the opening scene before a North Vietnamese guard slams the cell shut. He’s left with orders to write about his days as a Communist spy.
Here, memory is employed as a narrative device and, more broadly, a metatextual allusion to American pop culture’s remembrance of the “lost war.” The Sympathizer challenges this extant cultural memory through its protagonist’s split allegiances. A half-Vietnamese, half-French Communist, the Captain is “cursed to see every issue from both sides.” Even his blood brothers, Bon (Fred Nguyen Khan) and Man (Duy Nguyễn) are divided along party lines.
There’s a quote often attributed to the French director François Truffaut about how “there’s no such thing as an anti-war film.” Perhaps what Truffaut meant, other interpretations notwithstanding, is that most narratives about war inevitably take a side; that cinema imbues combat and conflict with a moral imperative and transforms violence into spectacle. But if an anti-war film is impossible, is there hope for cinema that grapples with war’s abject dualities without striking a false balance? The Sympathizer may be well-positioned to do so under the creative direction of its non-American showrunners: Park Chan-wook, the South Korean auteur behind Oldboy, The Handmaiden, and Decision to Leave, and Don McKellar, a Canadian filmmaker. Park directed the first three episodes, and the series premiere is marked by his stylish meticulousness. “Death Wish” opens with a shot of a guard blowing cigarette smoke into a wooden cell. The camera deftly pans back to reveal the Captain before a desk and a notepad, as the events he’s recounted unfold through flashbacks.
In January 1975, four months before Saigon fell, the Captain met with Claude (Robert Downey Jr.), a CIA agent, at a movie theater. The two were to watch Death Wish, starring Charles Bronson. Here, the Captain’s voiceover interjects to revise a detail in his previous report (he last noted the movie was Emmanuelle, not Death Wish, but confirms that it’s the latter). Such retroactive revisions are a slippery narrative strategy employed throughout the episode, which Park emphasizes by pausing, rewinding, and replaying scenes to reveal previously omitted details. Inside the theater, the Captain and Claude watch the interrogation of a battered North Vietnamese captive, who had in her possession a complete list of South Vietnamese secret agents. The captive is repeatedly questioned about her “contact.” The double-crossing spy behind the mission is, in fact, the Captain, a detail relayed to viewers in reverse chronological order.
A few days prior, the Captain was asked to retrieve the list of names by his Northern handler (and blood brother) Man and deposit it in a mailbox. Later at the Southern headquarters, the Captain learns that a wiretap had intercepted the mission, leaving him no choice but to deploy agents to catch the Northern spy. He sends off a harried call to Man in code (“It looks like the cat is about to pounce on the pigeon,” the Captain says in shockingly unimaginative spy-speak). Man cracks his neck and hangs up without a word, and the Captain hurries off to catch the captive. This early noir-ish twist in the episode benefits from Park’s fast-paced and precise direction before the mood heightens into melodrama. There’s a grotesqueness to the interrogation scene that is both horrifying and darkly humorous. It’s a classic Park move to have Claude up close to the camera, saying, “This is counterintelligence. It gets wet down there,” and “You have to want to taste the interrogation!” while the captive is defecating out the evidence in the background.
Two months later, as Northern bombings ramp up in the South, the General summons Claude to his home, where the Captain also resides. Claude arrives bearing gifts, and when he hands the Captain the new Isley Brothers record, he adds, “Quiet as it’s kept, I’m 1/16th Negro” (which immediately led me to think of RDJ in Tropic Thunder), to which the General responds in Vietnamese: “Why do these Ivy League brats always insist they’re part Black?” The conversation shifts over to the plane; the General yells, “THE PLANE!” before claiming that his evacuation will be a temporary retreat. Claude says the CIA can only offer one plane with 92 seats, and the General tasks the Captain with selecting those who would leave with them. He makes a point to choose the incompetent officers, knowing that the more competent agents will be left to stand trial.
Days before Saigon falls, Bon, Man, and the Captain get day-drunk over canned Budweisers. There’s a boyish wistfulness to their interactions. They exchange loud kisses on each other’s forehead and get teary-eyed over an anti-war song as explosions rumble in the distance. They can sense that things won’t ever be the same. The Captain had secured seats for Bon, his wife, and the newborn on the General’s plane with the intent of staying behind to witness the Northern takeover. However, Man insists that his friend would be of better service abroad. Then, Man’s tone darkens. He sounds Machiavellian, even accusatory: “You want to go. When you were at college, your letters back were like fan letters. You dream in English. You love America. Admit it.”
“I was fascinated and repulsed,” the Captain says. “That’s what it means to love America,” Man responds. It’s not an unfounded accusation: The Captain, at the very least, enjoys American music. He lip-synced to War’s “Low Rider” in the car as he cornered the North Vietnamese agent and sang along to Del Shannon’s “Runaway” with Claude, correcting the agent about who made the tune.
The episode reaches its conclusive climax with the overnight evacuation on the General’s plane. The Captain accompanies the General, his wife (Ky Duyen), and daughter Lana (Vy Le) to the airport, as they board a series of buses to take them to the tarmac. “Nut to butt! Nut to butt!” yells the American GI who oversaw their bus boarding. It is the episode’s final, flailing attempt at comedic relief while the sky is streaked with flares and the bombardment continues ceaselessly. A few bombs narrowly miss the bus before it’s struck and flips over. The Captain, the General’s family, and Bon’s family miraculously survive and run towards the plane, as gunfire closes into the airfield. On the dash to the plane, debris from a crashing helicopter strikes Bon’s wife, Linh, killing her. The Captain runs back to Bon, urging him to make a run for the plane.
The episode ends with a grimy Captain in his cell, his light eyes (unconvincing colored contacts) and tear-streaked face basking in the thin strips of sun through his cell. He hears a song and presses his ear to the walls to hear it. It’s “Runaway” by Del Shannon.
Terry Nguyen , 2024-04-15 04:00:40
Source link
