‘The Stringer’ Review: Doc Aims a Piercing Light on the Business of Journalism and the Fog of War

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How do you untangle a lie and especially the elaborate narrative constructed around it? This is the profound question that drives the powerful documentary, “The Stringer“, by Bao Nguyen. At its heart lies a well-known photograph that echoed globally during the Vietnam War, and a dedicated group of journalists who sought, 50 years later, to clarify whether it was correctly credited to its original photographer.

A movie, “The Stringer,” offers a gripping account of a global detective’s journeys, blending modern visual analysis techniques skillfully into its narrative. The film, created by Nguyen, carries a powerful emotional undertone. It is not primarily about geopolitics but rather the complex dynamics within workplaces and, in essence, the intricate relationship between these two aspects.

The film “The Stringer” portrays a globe-trotting detective’s adventures, seamlessly integrating cutting-edge visual forensics into its storyline. Nguyen has crafted an emotionally charged movie that focuses less on geopolitical issues and more on office politics, ultimately exploring the intricate connection between these two spheres.

The iconic photograph, popularly known as “Napalm Girl,” is significantly connected to the cultural heritage of both the United States and Vietnam. Taken on June 8, 1972, following a tragic friendly fire bombing in the village of Trang Bang, this image captures the panic and devastation caused by a regrettable South Vietnamese air attack. Within the camera’s lens, a cluster of children escape their blazing homes, with a nine-year-old girl named Phan Thi Kim Phuc at the heart of the scene, crying and stripped naked due to the intense burns she suffered.

The burns sustained by Kim Phuc on her back are not shown in the photograph, but rather in contemporary film footage, which is used within the documentary to create a complex portrayal of the interactions between villagers and the few photojournalists present at the chaotic event. Interestingly, only one of these documenters was a staff photographer for AP – 21-year-old Nick Út.

The image will be acknowledged as the work of the staff member and shared extensively. Notably, it also won a Pulitzer Prize, along with other accolades. However, it’s worth noting that Nguyen Thành Nghe, the freelancer who captured the photo as The Stringer suggests, was only paid $20 by AP for his work.

In the days before social media, when distressing images of children affected by war weren’t a daily occurrence, one carefully chosen image could still carry a powerful emotional punch. However, the full impact of this particular image wasn’t foreseeable, and there’s no indication in “The Stringer” that the goal was to wrongfully claim another person’s credit. Instead, something more sinister transpired, almost unintentionally. This incident mirrored the corporate hierarchy where freelancers are often undervalued compared to permanent staff members. Additionally, local freelancers in developing countries are frequently viewed by Western companies as replaceable parts in a machine.

As a devoted fan, I’ve come to learn that the authentic creator of a renowned photograph was widely known among those present, as suggested in the film. For one individual, Carl Robinson – a photo editor at AP’s Saigon bureau during that time – this secret became a persistent challenge, a “50-year-long cover-up” he felt compelled to unmask as he approached his 80th birthday. His correspondence with photojournalist Gary Knight, who heads the France-based VII Foundation focusing on press freedom and education, sparked the quest that unfolds in the documentary, revealing breakthrough after breakthrough. Joining Knight in this investigation are journalists Fiona Turner, Terri Lichstein, and Lê Vân, while Robinson’s Vietnamese wife, Kim-Dung Robinson, assists in gathering information to unveil the truth.

Robinson, looking regretful, often talks about an incident from 1972 that has troubled him ever since. It was when AP boss Horst Faas, their well-known Southeast Asia photographer, decided to send out a photograph of Kim Phuc with her name attached to it, despite the deadline. (Faas passed away in 2012.) Robinson isn’t alone in his regret; many people have kept quiet about similar issues out of financial necessity. Some journalists who agreed to talk openly with Knight later refused to do so.

As a captivated admirer, I’d express it like this: Nguyen, in his masterpieces “Be Water” and “The Greatest Night in Pop”, collaborates with editor Graham Taylor to skillfully blend interviews with historical footage, along with monochrome re-enactments that subtly echo the turbulent Saigon of war-time, a city teeming with international journalists. However, the heart of this film lies in the recent two-year chase, spanning from the gleaming metropolis and War Remnants Museum, now known as Ho Chi Minh City, to the suburbs of California. The filmmaker’s primary focus is this modern quest.

In the movie, Kim Phuc, who leads a charity organization for war-affected children, was not present, but her Vietnamese family members featured instead, looking at photos and recounting distressing experiences. One relative recalled their composure as they removed bomb fragments that clung like charred rice. Jannie Nguyen, Nghe’s daughter in the U.S., provided poignant accounts of witnessing the iconic photograph and its impact on their family. The meeting between a remorseful Robinson and the hospitalized Nghe was a mini-drama, filled with unspoken emotions rather than spoken words.

In my gaming world, when I took on the role of ‘The Stringer’, I found myself delving into a personal narrative that hinted at a broader political landscape – the U.S.’s involvement in Vietnam. Although it wasn’t explicitly detailed, the pieces were subtly scattered, inviting me to connect the dots or contemplate the implications. That fateful day, the aircraft soaring through the skies belonged to the South Vietnamese, but they were American Skyraiders. The character, Nghe, casually dropped references to his education at the U.S. Army Signal School and his employment with the U.S. Embassy and their Psy-Op division, suggesting a deeper connection with the American military.

Regarding Út, who was not featured in the documentary, Knight and his team extend compassionate and generous comments towards him regarding his unwitting involvement in a significant case of mistaken identity. Although he didn’t actively pursue undeserved recognition, he accepted it when offered. Nguyen subtly portrays him enjoying the limelight, which, given the questionable circumstances, appears more like tarnished glamour. The complex undertones hinted at but left unsaid are reminiscent of Conrad or Dostoyevsky’s novels.

Debunking myths isn’t usually met with enthusiasm, regardless if they revolve around brief incidents or idealized portrayals of journalists. We currently reside in a time when even the strongest evidence is often evaluated based on a bias, frequently along partisan lines. The narrative that Nguyen’s film skillfully and sensitively deconstructs is deeply ingrained in our shared subconscious, playing a significant role in AP’s tale. The news agency opted not to appear onscreen in the documentary, but they did review the evidence collected by Knight and his team. Their reaction, as reported by the filmmakers, won’t astonish anyone who has experienced being gaslighted by an institution. It’s disheartening nonetheless. If you search for “napalm girl,” you’ll find that Nick Út’s photographic bravery is still thriving. For now, at least.

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2025-01-26 07:55