Netflix’s documentary The Stringer: The Man Who Took the Photo, directed by Bao Nguyen, is a stunningly layered exploration of one of photojournalism’s longest-standing disputes — who truly captured the world-famous “Napalm Girl” image. Clocking in at 90 minutes, the film draws on years of research, interviews, and technical analysis to probe the ethics, politics, and memory gaps in war reporting.
For the uninitiated, the “Napalm Girl” photograph depicts nine-year-old Phan Thị Kim Phúc fleeing a fiery napalm strike during the Vietnam War — an image that would come to symbolize the devastating human cost of the conflict. Traditionally, Associated Press photographer Nick Ut has been credited for the shot. But Nguyen’s film challenges that long-held belief, instead spotlighting the lesser-known Vietnamese freelancer Nguyen Thanh Nghe as a potential author.
Guided by veteran photojournalist Gary Knight and former AP editor Carl Robinson, the documentary unfolds as both a mystery and a moral reckoning. Through emotional testimonies, painstaking archival digging, and cutting-edge spatial mapping, the filmmakers reconstruct the scene to reveal inconsistencies in the accepted narrative. This is as much about who took the photograph as it is about how institutions shape — and sometimes distort — history.
What gives the film its emotional gravity is its human core. Robinson’s palpable regret, Knight’s relentless pursuit of the truth, and Nghe’s quiet dignity unmask a bigger issue: the systemic erasure of freelancers, especially those working in war zones. These individuals often face economic insecurity, lack of recognition, and life-threatening dangers with little institutional protection.
The film also reflects on the perilous reality of war photojournalism — a topic that resonates even more in light of current conflicts in places like Palestine and Sudan. The bravery required to document atrocities is matched only by the ethical weight of bearing witness.
While some perspectives are missing — with certain key figures declining to be interviewed — that absence underscores the nature of truth itself: incomplete, complicated, and often shaped by silence.
By its final act, The Stringer becomes almost philosophical, asking audiences to consider what recognition truly means, what ethical obligations journalists carry, and how a single image can hold both the pain of its subjects and the forgotten struggles of its creator.
This is not merely a story of disputed credit; it’s a deep examination of responsibility, truth, and power. In exposing how dominant narratives are constructed, The Stringer: The Man Who Took the Photo affirms the need for patient, ethical storytelling to restore voices lost to history.
