Bua

“Life is song sung by men,” reads Bua from her uncle’s notebook during the film that bears her name.

Bua (Ornpreeya Jory) is fifteen years old and mixed race, meaning her colouring makes her stand out in her small village in the Samut Sakhon province of Thailand. She lives with her grandmother (Sawanee Navinthananchai) on their charcoal farm and lives a sheltered life; wearing dungarees, messing around with her best friend Meng (Nakrit Chantasombat), and dreaming of one day visiting her estranged mother in Bangkok. However, Phensiri Klangsurin and Intira Jaroenpura’s well-made and sobering drama, set against the backdrop of the 1970s student protests, explores the burgeoning of Bua’s womanhood and the leering eyes and wandering hands of the men around her that will teach her an unwelcome and grave lesson about the world she is coming of age in.

It’s a fairly unrelenting character trajectory for the protagonist and one that young actress Jory does a reasonable job of navigating. She must go from wide-eyed and naive dreamer to having the safety of childhood unnervingly punctured and then into a full-blown world of sexual advances and abuse from older men within the movie’s runtime. There are occasions when the speed of this feels almost too breakneck, and the overwhelming emotions threaten to prove too difficult to manage, but Jory treads a fine line and grows into the role as it becomes more demanding. While her character arc has a lot to fit in, Klangsurin and Jaroenopura are evidently keen to give the film’s difficult themes and subject matter time to breath, keeping the pace fairly sedate even when the drama is ramping up.

The first indicator of something untoward comes early in the film when Bua’s grandmother sends her to the home of the local Chief (Sirakoop Medhanee) who, expecting her, asks Pat (Fonpa Pramoj Na Ayudhya) to begin teaching her in the ways of womanhood, specifically through the lens of Bua learning how to behave and dress for beauty competitions. Bua’s sexuality is already being assessed and commodified by others even before men begin to openly show interest in this young girl. Unfamiliar with the social expectations on young women, she eagerly begins to take lessons, not blinking twice when reading the aforementioned line in her uncle’s diary about life being a song sung by men. That uncle, Somneuk (Chanintorn Jitpreeda), is newly returned from the big city where he has apparently been involved in the protests, but now that he’s back, begins taking an interest in the pubescent Bua.

From that point, Bua does become a difficult watch and while never egregious in its depiction of sexual abuse, its patient pacing also draws out the horror of the situation. It is then the repeated undermining of hope that makes the film’s second half a little gruelling, as individuals who might step in to rectify the situation either turn a blind eye, are nullified, or remain painfully oblivious. There is a recurring shot in the film – first seen in the early moments – of Bua beneath the water of a pond and the suffocating milieu is potently presented. Nisarat Meechok’s editing allows for symbolic cutaways and visual allegory, while the unhurried pace only amplifies the stifling atmosphere.

This is also helped by the supporting performances, not least Jitpreeda who is eminently unlikable as Somneuk, presented as a soulful musician and deep thinker but also a snivelling abuser and lifelong wastrel who has seemingly only reappeared at the family home because he is running away from something or someone in Bangkok. The inappropriate interest he shows in Bua is evident straight away and the subtlety of his sliminess and controlling aggression towards his niece make him feel like a real-world threat rather than a fictional villain.

This might make it sound as though there is no light at all in Bua, and that is not quite the case. She and Meng’s friendship – evidently lifelong love on Meng’s side – is touching and allows a little warmth. Once the abuse has begun, Meng is the primary source of any time Bua is allowed a smile. However, these are few and far between, and although Klangsurin and Jaroenopura don’t make every scene feel ominous and portentous, it is hard to pull clear of the gravity of the downward spiral that Bua is in. Of course, this is a serious and vitally important subject matter, so the onus is not on the filmmakers to make light of it, but the inexorable march can feel gruelling at times. There are some brief flickers that offer cause for hope – and the tying of the narrative to the crescendo of the protests offers some semblance of a suggestion for a changing future – though an audience looking at this from half a century in the future will rightly understand that this is not some problem of the past and there is still much work to be done. Bua offers a powerful, if relentlessly bleak, portrayal of a sickeningly prevalent issue.

Directors: Phensiri Klangsurin, Intira Jaroenpura
Screenplay: Phensiri Klangsurin, Punyisa Sattayakom, Pass Patthanakumjon, Wilasinee Ruangprajuabkun
Cast: Ornpreeya Jory, Nakrit Chantasombat, Chanintorn Jitpreeda, Sawanee Navinthananchai
Producers: Kongkiat Khomsiri, Piyaluck Mahatanasab
Cinematography: Nisha Jurairattanaporn
Editing: Nisarat Meechok
Music: Komsan Vorasrisothorn
Production design: Wuttikorn Sripothong
Production companies: Shinesaeng Ad.Venture, Kongkiat Production, North Star Production (Thailand)
Venue: Busan International Film Festival (Vision: Asia)
In Thai
129 minutes

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