We like to believe that whatever we may desire simply stems from Mother Nature, but how often do we take action— how much do we long for—simply because of what we’re told throughout our upbringing? “Just pretend that you like it, so that he will like it. One day you will like it for real,” young May is told, after her wedding night. The bloody sheet is hung for all to see.
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May (Nguyen Phuong Tra My) is only 14. She’s just been sold to a man of high prestige, in order to settle a debt owed by her family. Set in the 19th century, on Vietnam’s rural countryside, writer/director Ash Mayfair’s remarkably studied, “The Third Wife,” is a beautifully despondent first feature with all too timely commentary; a powerful reflection on sexual subjugation and the hypocrisy of moral hierarchy, featuring incredibly soft, and strikingly textured cinematography.
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As the title suggests, May is the third wife of the man to which she is betrothed. In order to assert herself, she must give birth to a newborn son. She prays to Buddha, as all the women in the village do, asking to “create the last boy for this family.” An even younger girl, who has not yet bled, prays for precisely the opposite, begging the enlightened figure to transform her into a man, so she may have the honor of claiming many wives. Given the path instructed, May allows herself to become a man’s physical object, crawling across the floor like a service animal at her new husband’s request. She soon becomes pregnant.
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One day, May follows the second wife, Xuan (Mai Thu Huong Maya) and her firstborn son out into the wilderness. The two make love to each other among the trees. May watches the incestuous situation unfold, intrigued by the passion and pleasure she’s witnessing. She begins developing an attraction towards the older mistress. But bad behavior can bring a curse upon the family and taboo tensions continue to simmer in secret.
If it is not already apparent, this story isn’t going to end happily. Mayfair’s film is more than powerful and absolutely necessary, but not always easy to watch— and not solely in regards to incestuous/child sexual matters either. In one scene, when learning how to properly prepare a rooster to serve as supper for the evening, the film holds on a shot of its blood being poured of its severed neck and collected into a small dish. However, the creative decision is not without merit; it isn’t a choice made merely for guttural impact—although it does have that effect. In a later sequence, a sickly cow is fed a poison plant to ease its suffering, but that’s not the only reason. They are also letting the animal pass on, in peace, so it does not die on their son’s wedding day.
After May’s marriage, towards the film’s opening, a new calf is born. They discuss how much value the baby beast has, claiming it to be worth enough to buy a number of gorgeous dresses for the girls. Mayfair’s movie deftly questions the value we place on moral hierarchy. These woman are essentially breeding sex slaves, to the men in the village (well, there is one man that feels different), to an extent, they are implied to have far greater value to the survival of their culture than the other beings, but from an economic viewpoint, life is easily dismissed in favor of items of trade; they are all replaceable animals. After having a child out of wedlock, a man is publicly whipped. May asks what will happen to him. He might be severely punished, but he will be afforded enough allowance to keep his job, to hold a purpose.
Mayfair often keeps her camera at a distance. Long lens usage is common and the foreground of the frame is frequently obscured by what is either natural or man-made. The visuals almost sedate the viewer, implanting the audience inside an internal jail, compressing nature into cultural oppression. Worms nestle themselves into the very fabrics they’ve weaved, as if imprisoned by their own color, by their own creation. The misty fog and compact lensing sometimes evoke the compositions of the great Kenji Mizoguchi. As with the Japanese auteur’s elegant melodramas; the intimate, empathetic performances, and remarkable mise en scène, amount to everything. The film bleeds emotion through its imagery.
When a woman is essentially a vessel of sexuality, the constant dismissal of her own intimate feelings can easily make her feel, falsely, that older generations must simply not have experienced the same pain as she. Their attitude appears resigned but is tragically seen by them as but realistic. There comes a time when life teaches you that further prayer is futile. When you’re told exactly how you must behave, how can you know what feelings to believe? Any attempt to describe what “The Third Wife” is able to elicit with its inevitable ending, how it punctuates all these, still, systemically relevant themes, would do the piece a great disservice. Ash Mayfair’s debut film is an astonishing achievement for a first feature, one not every film-goer will be able to stomach, but a work every caring cinephile should see. [B+]
