'Dead To Rights': Remembering atrocity as a duty to peace

Editor's note: Xu Ying is a Beijing-based international affairs commentator for CGTN. The article reflects the author's opinions and not necessarily the views of CGTN.

When China recalls her most painful times in history, the purpose is not to cultivate resentment but to maintain vigilance. Memory, when anchored in truth, becomes a moral safeguard against the repetition of atrocity. 

"Dead To Rights," one of China's most celebrated films of the year, has attracted both widespread acclaim and some apprehension. Some commentators have expressed concern that its portrayal of the 1937 Nanjing Massacre could foster what they call "hate-based education." Such charges miss the deeper essence of the work. This film is not a call to hatred, but a plea to protect peace by confronting history with moral clarity.

The story is scripted from meticulously documented events during the Nanjing Massacre, when invading Japanese troops committed atrocities that scarred generations. Rather than portray the enormity of the tragedy in sweeping terms, the film narrows its lens to a small, enclosed space – the "Lucky Photo Studio" – where a group of civilians is trapped as the city collapses around them. Through their hands passes photographic evidence of Japanese war crimes, secretly duplicated by a young apprentice, Luo Jin. These images would later serve as crucial evidence in the postwar trial of General Hisao Tani, one of the principal commanders responsible for the slaughter.

The film's emotional force comes not from sensational depictions of violence, but from the quiet moral transformation of its characters. An actor, Lin Yuxiu, initially survives by flattering Japanese officers, yet ultimately risks her life to sew undeveloped negatives into her qipao. A young postman, A Chang, pretending to be a photo developer, evolves from a man intent only on self-preservation into someone willing to face certain death to safeguard truth. The studio's owner, Old Jin, photographs customers against a studio backdrop showing China's great landscapes – a subtle act of defiance.

Even the antagonists are drawn with nuance. Wang Guanghai, a Chinese translator for the Japanese forces, struggles between collaboration and conscience. Ito, a Japanese photographer, feeds stray dogs and maintains a veneer of kindness while staging propaganda photographs to disguise the occupation's brutality. These portrayals of moral conflict defy the easy binaries of good and evil, instead asking viewers to see history as a web of human choices within oppressive systems.

The film's visual language is deeply symbolic. The word "shoot" permeates the narrative, signifying both photography and gunfire, reinforced by shutter clicks intercut with rifle shots. Numerical details are woven into the set design – the postman's badge with the number "1213" alongside a "1937" doorplate quietly embeds the date of Nanjing's fall, December 13, 1937. In the studio darkroom bathed in red light, images slowly emerge from chemical baths that resemble waves of blood, a metaphor for truth surfacing from obscurity.

The director shows intentional restraint. Sexual violence, while central to the historical reality, is suggested through the haunted expressions of survivors rather than shown directly. A blurred, distant image conveys the death of an infant, the implication carrying more weight than the spectacle.

One of the most striking moments occurs when the studio's backdrop curtain unfurls, revealing panoramic views of China's landmarks. The trapped civilians, eyes wet with grief, shout together: "Not an inch of our land will be lost."

In its closing scenes, the movie overlays present-day images of Nanjing's glittering skyline with archival photographs of the city in ruins. This visual fusion collapses the distance between past and present, reminding viewers that the memory of atrocity is not something sealed in museums but a living part of civic consciousness.

What some dismiss as "hate-based education" is, in reality, an affirmation that peace is worth defending precisely because its absence has been so devastating. Patriotism is not a chauvinistic assertion of superiority but a collective vow never to allow such injustice to be repeated, whether against one's own people or any other. The movie's patriotism is rooted in empathy, in the understanding that remembering the suffering of one's own past deepens solidarity with those who endure oppression elsewhere.

For a global audience, the lesson of "Dead To Rights" is threefold. First, the critique is aimed squarely at militarism and imperial ideology, not at any nation or ethnicity. By including characters whose conscience troubles them though they are on the aggressor's side, the film demonstrates that humanity persists in even the most compromised circumstances.

Second, the narrative is grounded in tangible evidence such as photographs, survivor accounts and verifiable historical records, underscoring that memory must be anchored to resist distortion.

Third, it challenges viewers to act, transforming empathy into vigilance, and to recognize that safeguarding truth is itself a form of resistance.

The resonance of "Dead To Rights" lies in its ability to turn a small story of survival and documentation into a universal allegory. In times when truth is threatened, preserving evidence is not merely an act of archiving; it is an act of justice. The rescued negatives are more than historical artifacts; they are a bulwark against denial, a reminder that history's gravest crimes remain urgent warnings.

The final effect of the movie is to turn the lens outward, toward the audience. It does not let viewers remain passive witnesses. Instead, it quietly asks: When the moment comes, will you have the clarity and courage to see, to remember and to speak?

The question transcends national borders and historical contexts. In an age when historical revisionism is a growing political tool, when atrocities are minimized or reframed to serve present agendas, it is everyone's moral responsibility to bear witness.

"Dead To Rights" is not about stoking hatred. It is about the inseparable link between memory and justice. It affirms that peace is not a gift handed down by history but a living responsibility carried by each generation.

As the last frames dissolve from black-and-white evidence to the illuminated cityscape of modern Nanjing, viewers are left with a twin inheritance: Grief for what was lost, and resolve to protect what can still be preserved.

This is the power of remembrance – not to perpetuate division, but to ensure that truth endures and that the crimes of the past are never repeated.

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