Somewhere Between Airports

Lately, I've realised that I no longer measure time in weeks or months. Instead, I remember journeys through airport terminals, train platforms, hotel rooms, and interview locations. My suitcase is rarely unpacked before I'm packing it again. Sometimes I wake up and have to remind myself what city I'm in. My camera has become less of a tool and more of a companion. Each journey brings another conversation, another perspective, and another question that I hadn't anticipated.

When I first conceived this documentary, I imagined that I was documenting the history of the áo dài. Increasingly, however, I have come to understand that history does not simply exist in archives or museums. As historian Pierre Nora argues in Between Memory and History (1989), memory is lived, embodied, and continually reconstructed through people and places. The áo dài is not merely an object of material culture; it is a vessel through which memories, identities, and relationships are carried across generations.

Filming has also changed the way I observe the world. John Berger writes in Ways of Seeing that "the relation between what we see and what we know is never settled." I have found this to be profoundly true behind the camera. Every interview challenges assumptions I did not realise I held. Every participant offers a different way of understanding what the áo dài represents. For some, it is heritage; for others, it is migration, resilience, family, or belonging. The same garment carries entirely different meanings depending on the life that inhabits it.

The practical realities of documentary filmmaking remain largely invisible. People often see the finished film. They see beautiful shots, carefully framed interviews, sweeping music, and polished storytelling. They don't see the early mornings. The interviews that get cancelled at the last minute. The batteries that die at exactly the wrong moment. The hours spent backing up footage because losing even one memory would be devastating. No one sees those parts. The constant uncertainty of production is rarely seen by audiences. Yet these unseen moments shape the film just as much as the interviews themselves. They demand patience and adaptability. Documentary, I am beginning to realise, is as much about waiting as it is about recording.

David MacDougall describes the documentary as an encounter rather than an act of observation. That idea has stayed with me. Every interview is built upon trust, and trust cannot be rushed. Often the most revealing moments emerge only after the prepared questions have ended, when the camera continues to roll and silence creates space for reflection. These moments cannot be scripted; they must be earned. Some days I still worry whether I'll ever finish. There is so much left to film. So many questions I haven't answered. But I think I'm beginning to understand that documentaries aren't built all at once. They're built one conversation at a time. One journey at a time. One act of trust at a time.

Stuart Hall reminds us that cultural identity is "not an essence but a positioning." I find myself returning to this idea repeatedly as I travel. Many of the people I meet are negotiating identities across languages, countries, and generations. The áo dài becomes a way of positioning oneself in relation to family, homeland, and the future. It is simultaneously a memory of where one comes from and a declaration of who one chooses to become.

Perhaps the most unexpected discovery is that this documentary is changing me as much as I hope it may eventually move its audience. I began believing I was collecting interviews. Instead, I have found myself participating in a much larger conversation about identity, migration, memory, and home.I know for a fact that The Long Dress is not a film about extraordinary individuals. It is a film about ordinary people keeping extraordinary things alive. What began as a documentary about a cultural symbol has become an exploration of how culture endures, not through preservation alone, but through the countless individuals who continue to reinterpret it in their own lives.

And somewhere between airports, interviews, and endless miles, I think this film has quietly become part of who I am. I set out to document a story. I didn't expect the story to begin rewriting me…