For long-time viewers, you may realize this is not the first time director Bùi Thạc Chuyên has appeared as a guest at Have A Sip. Two years ago, he joined in Episode 100 with Glorious Ashes (Tro Tàn Rực Rỡ), and now he returns for Episode 217. It is a great honor for us to converse with him after each significant cinematic milestone.
Still the stories surrounding the craft. Still the same consistent reasoning, the calm perspective of a seasoned filmmaker. Yet, this conversation carries a certain ineffable weight, perhaps because it takes place at a particularly meaningful moment: the 50th anniversary of national reunification. And Director Chuyên also brings Tunnel, a touching story to share.
I myself don’t know how to explain the full nuance of the word “special” in this context. I can only say that whatever images you may have previously associated with Tunnel may very well “collapse” after this article.
Tunnel Is Not Necessarily A War Film
Director Bùi Thạc Chuyên told his audiences not to approach Tunnel with the mindset that it is a war movie. Why?
In his view, a conventional definition of warfare typically involves direct confrontation between two sides. We have all read or heard accounts of the nation’s painful conflicts, where soldiers bore immense sacrifice to secure freedom for the country. But Tunnel deviates from this paradigm. The guerrilla fighters in the film do not seek to battle for dominance. Rather, they choose to SURVIVE in darkness, digging deeper into the earth, not to triumph over the enemy, but to preserve the tunnels as if preserving their very own lives.
Thus, Tunnel aligns more closely with the genre of SURVIVAL than with traditional war films.
From the beginning, Củ Chi was never intended to be portrayed as a land of individual heroism or legendary battles. It was chosen to embody the spirit of an entire Vietnam. Beyond patriotic love lies raw courage and unyielding resilience. Who else would continue digging, when death came close to breath? Who else, amidst the sound of bullets screaming past their ears, could calmly light a fire, steadfastly clinging to the tunnels until the final moment? Fire may blur one's vision, but never the fierce will to live that burned within them.
This realization has come as a “revelation” for many audiences. If Tunnel is likened to a “great storm”, then the Củ Chi guerrillas are like the “children” who stood their ground to protect their home. And as director Chuyên has remarked, there is no need to force Tunnel into the frame of a war film burdened by loss and mourning.
Tunnel: The Most “Invested” Film In His Career
Throughout his filmmaking career, director Chuyên has encountered many challenges - both large and small. But when it came to Tunnel, he admits that this journey was particularly arduous. He had to “invest” almost everything: time, money, intellect, energy, even faith. In fact, Tunnel is the most resource-intensive project he has ever undertaken.
The screenplay Tunnel: Sun in the Dark was written in 2014 and finalized two years later. While the timeline may appear smooth, few are aware of the immense dedication behind it. For director Chuyên, Tunnel was not created to serve any purpose other than to preserve memory for the Vietnamese people at large, and for the younger generations in particular. It had to be meticulous, and to be complete.
Thus, meticulously writing each word and refining every detail became a matter of course. In his philosophy, a screenplay cannot be completed overnight. It must be measured in months and years. Film does not build worlds on fleeting emotions. It demands rigorous calculations for every element, so that each frame, each character, each breath within the movie exists with clear purpose.
Director Chuyên jokingly refers to Tunnel as a film of “firsts”: the first time constructing a complex underground tunnel system, the first time replicating explosive blasts, falling bombs, even calibrating seismic vibrations to simulate an actual battlefield environment. Naturally, many of these “firsts” brought failures along with them.
A film, at its core, must explain three things to its audience: who, where, and when, before it can be judged good or bad. Yet underground, all notions of space and time become abstract. There is no sunlight, no specific temporal markers, no distinct scenery to grasp onto. Everything is compressed within soil and stone, in a suffocating, closed, and tense atmosphere.
This was one of the most perplexing challenges that weighed heavily on him. And yet, Tunnel came to life, just in time. Director Chuyên describes this as nothing short of “grace.”
But Also Brought The Greatest “Return”
In the commercial film industry, success is still often measured by revenue. Yet, what moved director Chuyên most was not the hundreds of billions in earnings. It was the faith and companionship of those who gave their all to the film.
Initially, the production team considered using props and CGI to recreate tanks and heavy artillery. However, thanks to support from the Ministry of National Defense and government leadership, the crew was granted access to authentic military equipment for historical accuracy. From tanks, helicopters, warships, to live ammunition and explosives. This marks the first time in Vietnamese cinematic history that a film utilized such an extensive array of military hardware. Without this wholehearted support from the state, the authenticity of the film would not have been possible.
If anyone wonders whether director Chuyên ever aspired to hit the hundred-billion-VND box office milestone, the answer is no. His primary concern has always been: how many people watched the film, and how did they react to it?
Even the investors behind the project did not fixate on revenue figures. For them, Tunnel’s success was sealed the moment the first underground scenes were projected onto the screen. Without needing to say so, everyone involved felt a quiet joy and deep emotion, especially knowing that the film would be released in time to mark the 50th anniversary of national reunification.
And true to expectations, Tunnel struck an emotional chord with its audience. What surprised director Chuyên most was the reaction from young people—not only did they watch attentively, but they also offered perspectives reflective of a later generation. Though they face different historical circumstances and live in a rapidly changing world, they still read, research, and equip themselves with historical understanding. They recognize that the peace and independence of today came at a profound cost.
No Epic Ballads Needed For Death
Tunnel does not move audiences to tears through grandiose music or dramatic portrayals of sacrifice. Across its more than two-hour runtime, deaths occur and pass quietly, unceremoniously. There is no prearranged silence, no orchestrated lamentation. Because that is the truth, and Director Chuyên’s filmmaking principle is to respect the truth.
To him, death in war is not exceptional; it is inevitable. It happens every day, every hour. The Củ Chi soldiers lived and died with a stoic acceptance, as if they already knew their fate. That is why Tunnel presents their stories through a calm lens, deliberately so.
Avoiding sensationalism or horror, Tunnel is constructed with humility, telling life’s rawness in the most organic way. If earlier generations saw sacrifice as normal, there is no reason for later generations to glorify it. Director Chuyên deliberately leaves blank spaces, crafting an “incomplete ending” so the audience may step in, and continue the narrative with their own imagination and emotion.
If an audience walks out of the cinema, crying and forgets it the next moment, nothing to say. But what truly matters is whether a “splinter” remains lodged in their heart, compelling them to ache, to reflect, to question that death long after the credits roll.
What Remains After A Landmark Film…
In Director Chuyên’s view, the most important thing after completing a film is to find a way to forget it… quickly.
At first, this might seem weird. But it’s understandable: having poured one’s soul into birthing a “creative child,” one must also be prepared to let go in order to embrace new beginnings. Lingering on a previous project makes it impossible to move forward. A filmmaker who cannot continue making films becomes irrelevant.
Therefore, he cherishes every opportunity to create and share the film with the audience. Whether it is widely distributed or wins awards is, to him, “a matter of fate.” The most meaningful rewards often lie in simpler things: a trip to a new land, meeting new people and listening to new stories. And sometimes, learning to “forget quickly” is the best way to fully preserve what was once deeply entrusted to the film.
By this point, perhaps the image you once had of Tunnel has subtly shifted. Yet regardless of emotional layers, we now have a truly meaningful cinematic work for the April 30th holiday. Though it would take another eight years after the events depicted in the film for Vietnam to achieve full reunification, we cannot deny that the silent war beneath the tunnel of Củ Chi was a vital part of the journey toward peace.