Cinema’s Transformation into Political Propaganda: Art or Agenda?

Cinema has always been a mirror, but particularly in the last decade, it has started holding that mirror at a rather flattering angle. The reflection now has a bit more nationalism, a bit less nuance, and sometimes, an entire political manifesto playing in the background.

The trailer for “The Taj Story,” which explores whether the Taj Mahal might once have been a temple, does not merely invite curiosity; it stages curiosity as corrective history. It is the newest addition to a growing ensemble of movies that treat doubt like doctrine and cinema like a courthouse. While filmmakers once wrestled with moral ambiguity, today’s ambiguity often lies in determining whether you are watching entertainment or an election campaign.

The easiest way to identify propaganda on screen is to notice who is being saved, and from whom. Every story needs a villain, and Bollywood has made an art out of villainizing entire communities, ideologies, or centuries of history. Films like “The Kashmir Files” or “The Kerala Story” are not satisfied with exploring tragedy; they must assign guilt, draw blood, and wave a flag while doing it.

These films claim to be “based on a true story,” but so do many fairy tales. The truth in such cases often revolves less around facts and more about evoking emotions—the kind that make people clap in theaters and seethe on social media.

Consider “Madras Cafe.” Ostensibly a political thriller about India’s covert dealings in Sri Lanka, it wore the researcher’s coat and won praise for restraint even as Tamil groups accused it of caricaturing insurgents and recasting complex violence as tidy patriotism. The film succeeded because it largely respected cinematic craft; its danger wasn’t crude lies but selective emphases that made certain conclusions feel inevitable.

Then there are films that are less obvious but more effective because they are emotionally sophisticated. “Rang De Basanti” channeled youth outrage into a cinematic narrative that made civic anger feel heroic and performative. Its impact extended beyond screens into public marches and conversations about corruption. The film didn’t spoon-feed doctrine; it personified political awakening, making its persuasion feel like a personal realization rather than instruction. Persuasion that feels volunteered is far harder to question.

Some movies wear national pride like a coat of arms. “Uri: The Surgical Strike,” for instance, refused to call itself propaganda; it called itself inspirational. But inspiration becomes problematic when a film ends up echoing government slogans. Patriotism sells, and Bollywood knows its best-selling products rarely come with disclaimers.

Hindi cinema does offer nuanced examples that complicate the binary of propaganda versus art. “Raajneeti” presented politics as Greek tragedy: the family becomes a state, and vice versa, inviting viewers to see corruption as spectacle rather than policy. The lesson here is that subtlety does not indicate absence of intent.

For decades, powerful states have used cinema as soft power, and Hollywood practically wrote the manual. During World War II, American studios produced films glorifying the Allied cause, sometimes with direct Pentagon involvement. “Top Gun” boosted military recruitment so effectively that the U.S. Navy set up booths outside theaters. More recently, “American Sniper” transformed complex geopolitics into a morality tale about one man’s courage.

Russia has its cinematic soldiers too, with films like “Panfilov’s 28 Men” or “T-34” recasting Soviet heroism as near-religious experience. Every nation that considers itself exceptional eventually turns to the camera for validation.

Looking back at history, D.W. Griffith’s “The Birth of a Nation” reshaped public opinion about Reconstruction and caused real harm by romanticizing racist violence. Leni Riefenstahl’s “Triumph of the Will” remains both a technical masterclass in image-making and a case study in how aesthetic splendor can lend moral credibility to authoritarianism.

More recently, China’s “The Battle at Lake Changjin” became one of the highest-grossing films in its history, portraying Chinese soldiers defeating Americans in Korea with almost divine bravery. Co-produced by the army and released around the Chinese Communist Party’s centenary, its timing was hardly coincidental. Across the world, nations have realized that cinema can achieve what censorship cannot: persuasion through beauty.

Even Bangladesh is not immune to this phenomenon. Recent biopics and documentaries about national leaders crystallize state narratives into celluloid hagiography. “Mujib: The Making of a Nation,” directed by Shyam Benegal, was treated as a national event where memory management met mass entertainment. “Hasina: A Daughter’s Tale” offers another example of how documentary form can consolidate personal and political narratives.

The danger lies not only in what these films say but in what they simplify. Complex histories become binary conflicts; messy social realities get rewritten as morality plays. It’s easy to love your country when the camera zooms in on a waving flag and fades out before the first uncomfortable question arises.

Sometimes the propaganda is subtler, dressed in the language of national pride, technological progress, or social unity. The problem isn’t that films love their countries; it’s that they increasingly love their governments too. A film that questions authority is considered anti-national, while one that flatters it is historic.

The line between art and propaganda is never just drawn by the artist, but by those who finance the project. What used to be state censorship has evolved into state sponsorship. Why ban what you can bankroll? A effective propaganda film doesn’t shout; it sentimentalizes. It wraps exclusion in emotional music and close-up tears, convincing viewers that intolerance is just another form of devotion.

In a world where attention is currency, outrage becomes the best marketing strategy. The result is a cinematic landscape where truth is optional, but feelings are mandatory. If you can get people to feel before they think, they’re no longer being told a story—they’re being mobilized.

Of course, political cinema isn’t new. Art has always taken sides. But the best political films question power; propaganda serves it. One challenges; the other comforts. Somewhere along the way, we stopped wanting to be challenged. We just wanted to feel righteous for two hours, perhaps with discounted popcorn at a state-sponsored screening.

The most dangerous propaganda films rarely announce themselves as such. They arrive wrapped in patriotic colors, accompanied by swelling music, insisting they’re simply showing the “real story.” While cinema may not rewrite history, it certainly reshoots it—in high definition, with nationalistic subtitles.