“Nanjing Photo Studio”: Memory, Hatred, and the Politics of Pain

 The Chinese film Nanjing Photo Studio has taken the mainland box office by storm.

Set in December 1937, when Japanese forces captured Nanjing, the story follows a 15-year-old apprentice, Luo Jin, who works at a local photo studio. One day, a Japanese officer brings in two rolls of film for development. As Luo works in the darkroom, he makes a horrifying discovery—photographs documenting Japanese soldiers committing atrocities: massacres, sexual assaults, and looting.

According to Xinhua News Agency, Luo risked his life to secretly keep dozens of these images, ultimately selecting 16 and binding them into an album. In February 1946, this album became key evidence at the Nanjing Trials, helping bring Japanese war criminals to justice. Today, the album is preserved in China’s Second Historical Archives in Nanjing.

Yet, during the film’s theatrical run, a disturbing real-world event occurred: a Japanese mother and her child were attacked in China—a grim reminder that historical hatred can still spill into modern violence.

From Historical Pain to National Obsession

Judging by its record-breaking box office, it’s clear that many Chinese viewers are drawn to this portrayal of national trauma. For some, the film offers a form of “hatred catharsis”—a grim satisfaction in seeing Japan’s wartime crimes depicted on screen. But this is not just mourning the past; it’s a transformation of “national pain” into a distorted kind of “national morale.”

Official narratives and state media amplify praise for the film while silencing criticism. On the surface, the government condemns violence against Japanese nationals in China, yet beneath the surface, it tacitly fosters anti-Japanese sentiment as a “booster shot” for nationalism. This mirrors the dangerous spirit of the Boxer Rebellion—an emotional, often irrational nationalism that, in the past, harmed China as much as it targeted foreigners.

Yes, the photographs in Nanjing Photo Studio record undeniable crimes. But they also reflect something else: China’s enduring inability—or unwillingness—to let go of certain historical hatreds. From government to grassroots, the call is to make more “patriotic blockbusters” like this one. Some even go as far as to label any critic of the film a hanjian—a traitor. After 80 years, the label still cuts deep.

The question remains: is this remembrance meant to honor the dead and guard against future atrocities—or to keep the wound open, preparing for some imagined revenge?

Anti-Japan Sentiment as Political Tool

For the Chinese Communist Party, this is not about revenge, but about power. In modern geopolitics, Japan is not China’s declared enemy—only its “hidden rival.” Anti-Japanese sentiment functions less as foreign policy than as domestic control.

In the Party’s playbook, alongside the “three treasures” of united front work, organizational building, and armed struggle, hatred toward Japan becomes a fourth political weapon—not for fighting foreign enemies, but for securing loyalty at home.

This ideological discipline repeatedly reopens historical wounds to provoke fresh anger, branding the exercise as “patriotism.” But in truth, it fosters a cultural isolationism that keeps the nation trapped in its own past. Unable to release yesterday’s pain, China struggles to step fully into tomorrow.

Violence Without Justice

Every official commemoration of Japan’s wartime crimes risks triggering copycat hostility toward innocent Japanese people today. The recent attack on a Japanese mother and child in Suzhou is one such example—a senseless act of “intergenerational revenge” that punishes those with no part in the original crimes.

The irony? Such incidents achieve the opposite of moral justice. They don’t enlighten; they don’t heal. But they do serve the CCP’s purpose: keeping the public locked in a cycle of historical grief, ensuring that “anti-Japan” remains a unifying political banner.

It’s no surprise that more films of this kind are on the way—titles like Dongji Island, The Mountains Bear Witness, Mr. Pingshi, and 731. These productions will keep audiences cocooned inside what can only be called a “chrysalis of hatred,” ensuring that the public never truly wakes from this century-old nightmare.

Toward a “Rehabilitation-Oriented Historical View”

So what should “remembering history” mean?
Is it about endlessly reliving the tragedy—or learning to draw strength from it?

If China’s road to “national rejuvenation” is paved with vengeance and bloodlust, it risks repeating the very crimes it condemns. War begets war; retaliation never produces true justice. The bayonet and the rifle cannot rebuild a nation’s dignity.

Other countries—Germany, Vietnam, Korea, post-Soviet Russia, even Japan itself—have had to face difficult periods of national rehabilitation after catastrophic wars. The methods differed, and so did the outcomes, but all were judged in part by their ability to move forward.

China, as one of the greatest victims of Japanese aggression, understandably struggles to forgive. But the deeper the wound, the greater the need for a wise national rehabilitation—one that clears away the toxins of hatred rather than preserving them for later use. Like a patient undergoing therapy, the goal should be to remove the infection, not keep it as a memento.

A people huddled in darkness cannot see the light outside the window. The time has come to open that window—not to forget history, but to make sure it no longer imprisons the future.