PARK CITY, Utah—“When you’re shooting with film, there’s always some mystery. But what you do know is what you didn’t take.”
So begins the bombshell documentary The Stringer, a voiceover that serves as a searing damnation of an alleged lie, a cover-up, and injustice that has gone on for over 50 years. It all involves what is widely considered to be the most important, impactful, and, as such, celebrated photograph ever taken. More specifically, who did—and who did not—take it.
The iconic “Napalm Girl” photo that was taken in Vietnam in 1972 is considered one of the most powerful images depicting the human toll of armed conflict that has ever been captured, redirecting the course of the Vietnam War when it was first published and resonating still today. According to detailed investigations recounted in The Stringer and the testimony of witnesses who were in the room when the fateful decision happened, Nick Út, the photographer credited with the image, did not take the photo.
It’s a potentially history-changing allegation. As such, the film and its claims are already the subject of controversy.
In The Stringer, which premiered this weekend at the Sundance Film Festival, an Associated Press photo editor who shepherded the image’s publishing confirms what is said to have been an open secret in certain circles of the industry: a local Vietnamese stringer had actually captured the image. That man was given $20 and a print of the photo as a keepsake. Út, on the other hand, won the Pulitzer Prize, and has spent the last 52 years basking in the glory and recognition of what is, the film convincingly argues, the work of another man—one who has spent his lifetime helpless to claim the credit he is may be due.
(The Associated Press remains steadfast that there is no evidence that Út did not take the photo. You can read the AP’s full statement on The Stringer, its accusations, and production process here. Út, who is now 73 years old and retired, did not respond to requests to be interviewed for the film.)
“Napalm Girl” is the haunting image taken seconds after a chemical attack was dropped on civilians in the southeast Vietnam area of Trảng Bàng, A group of children is captured running, screaming down the main road as smoke billows in the background behind them. In the center of the photo is nine-year-old Kim Phúc, naked with her arms outstretched as her flesh is burning and she wails in pain and distress. Within 24 hours of its publishing, it’s estimated that 1 billion people had seen the image.
It was in 2010 when Gary Knight, the executive director of non-profit VII Foundation, first heard that Út’s authorship of the photo was “questionable.” Every attempt at confirming this rumor was stonewalled. That is, until an email from a whistleblower arrived in 2022, spurning the two-year investigation captured by director Bao Nguyen in The Stringer.
Carl Robinson wrote Knight explaining that he was the AP photo editor who wrote the caption crediting Út as the image’s photographer. He also says that he was in the office as film was sent for processing from Út and two other stringers who were shooting in Trảng Bàng that day. Horst Faas, the director of the AP’s photo bureau in Saigon, selected the graphic image to send to presses and, according to Robinson, made the decision to credit Út, who was on staff, instead of the stringer Robinson says actually took the photo.
Bao Nguyen and Nguyen Than Nghe attend the
There are numerous theories for why this happened that are laid out throughout The Stringer. One is that this was common practice at the time, to credit staff over local stringers. Another is that Faas felt loyalty to Út, whose brother was also a photographer who died in service. A memo that Faas once wrote hinted at an unofficial policy not to credit the local Vietnamese stringers because of their “weird” names. And, of course, the AP and Út’s supporters are vehement that Út was credited because he did, in fact, take the photo.
As for why Robinson didn’t simply say “no” when Faas allegedly made this request, and why he hasn’t spoken out until now? “I’ve struggled with that for the rest of my life,” he says.
What unfolds in The Stringer is a scandalous and potentially consequential examination of justice that could, given the renown of the “Napalm Girl” photo, alter a perception of history and journalism’s role in not just documenting, but influencing it. “If this is true,” Knight says about the allegations, “is there a greater conspiracy in photojournalism?”
Questions of morality, justice, and truth are raised, while a harsh spotlight is put on and condemns the once-and-current common practice of taking advantage of stringers—one with undeniable roots in racism. The Stringer is also an exercise in journalism itself, as the man believed to be the rightful photographer is tracked down after five decades of anonymity.
It’s emotional to watch as Nguyen Thanh Nghe learns that the film crew has discovered his identity and aims to finally tell the truth. “That photo is mine,” he says. His family has spent all of this time living with the pain that Nghe had been erased from his contribution to history. It was seven months after the photo had reached widespread acclaim before Nghe even realized it had been published. His wife had thrown out the print he had been given when the AP purchased it, and with it, his only proof that he was the photographer.
Beyond the anecdotal claims made by Nghe, his family, Robinson, and other photographers who say they were aware of the misattribution, The Stringer provides forensic evidence.
There’s a sequence in which experts use the full library of photos and footage from that day in 1972 to map out and then animate the reality that Út almost irrefutably could not have taken the photo, using documentation of where Út was on the road in at various times images of Kim Phúc were captured in Trảng Bàng. Moreover, it makes the persuasive case that Nghe was in the exact position at the exact right time a photographer would need to be to capture the moment.
It’s as explosive of a revelation as I’ve seen in a documentary in a long time.
What’s set to follow is likely to be a protracted legal battle between the Associated Press and the filmmakers, of which Vanity Fair lays out the specifics. That underlines a messiness behind the film that could serve as a roadblock to what should be a headline-making claim about the provenance of the most famous photo in history: filmmakers were unable to get the AP or Út to admit that Nghe took the photo.
The Stringer covers its bases as best it can in that regard, exhaustively showing its research and including just about every interview it could with people who could corroborate its claim. That diligence bolsters the film’s case, of course, but delays what you crave: the gotcha moment that would convert the allegations into actual, gratifying justice.
That may yet come, as the film’s rollout sparks what are sure-to-be intense conversations about the photo’s provenance. In a public note, Knight lays out that mission. “There is an old adage that journalism is ‘the first draft of history,’” he writes. “Sometimes it takes a second draft to set the record straight.”
