Propaganda is often imagined as crude messaging or deliberate misinformation, but modern political theory offers a far more nuanced understanding. In Manufacturing Consent, Noam Chomsky argues that media systems function through subtle ideological filters that shape public perception. These filters do not necessarily impose falsehoods; instead, they prioritise certain narratives while marginalising others. In this sense, Film as Propaganda is not about deception alone, but about influence—about which stories are told, how they are framed, and whose voices are amplified.
When we extend this framework to cinema, particularly the Indian film industry, it becomes evident that films are not created in a vacuum. They are embedded within broader socio-political contexts and intellectual traditions. For decades, a significant section of Indian cinema has drawn from liberal and left-leaning discourses—emphasising secularism, critiquing authority, and advocating cross-border harmony. This does not imply a monolithic industry, but it does suggest that a dominant narrative tradition has influenced storytelling choices. Seen through this lens, Film as Propaganda becomes a useful analytical tool rather than a dismissive label.
Several widely celebrated films illustrate how ideological framing operates subtly yet powerfully. Rang De Basanti, for instance, presents a narrative that valorises dissent against the establishment. Its protagonists turn to extra-institutional action, reflecting a deep mistrust of formal political systems while simultaneously promoting a secular, youth-driven awakening. While the film resonated with audiences for its emotional intensity, it also reinforced a particular worldview about state power and resistance—demonstrating how Film as Propaganda can function through emotional identification rather than overt messaging.
Similarly, Main Hoon Na offers a conciliatory vision of India-Pakistan relations. It foregrounds dialogue and reconciliation as moral imperatives, while positioning a hyper-nationalist figure within the Indian establishment as an antagonist. The film’s tone is light-hearted, yet its ideological subtext is clear: peace is virtuous, and aggressive nationalism is suspect. Here again, Film as Propaganda operates not through coercion but through narrative sympathy and moral alignment.
In Shourya, the focus shifts to the complexities of military ethics and human rights. The film interrogates the actions of the Indian Army in a conflict zone, aligning itself with critical discourses that question state authority. While it raises important ethical questions, it also reflects a particular ideological stance—one that prioritises scrutiny of power structures. This reinforces the idea that Film as Propaganda is not inherently negative; it can also provoke necessary debate and introspection.
A more emotionally driven example is Bajrangi Bhaijaan, which humanises cross-border relationships through a deeply personal story. Pakistan is portrayed as compassionate and accessible, while the protagonist embodies innocence and moral clarity. The film’s humanitarian message is undeniable, yet it selectively engages with cultural and political realities to construct a specific narrative. Once again, Film as Propaganda manifests as a shaping force—guiding audience empathy in particular directions.
Against this backdrop, the contemporary debate surrounding Dhurandhar becomes more intelligible. The film, which foregrounds a more assertive nationalist perspective and highlights adversarial realities, has been labelled as “propaganda” by some critics. However, this reaction reveals an important asymmetry. If earlier films reflecting liberal or conciliatory ideologies were not widely branded as propaganda, why does a departure from that discourse invite such categorisation? The answer lies in perception: Film as Propaganda is often identified not by its structure, but by its ideological alignment with or against prevailing norms.
This brings us to a deeper theoretical question. Is any form of art truly apolitical? Philosophers from Plato to Antonio Gramsci have argued that cultural production is inseparable from power. Gramsci’s concept of cultural hegemony, in particular, highlights how dominant groups maintain influence not just through political institutions but through cultural narratives. Cinema, as one of the most powerful storytelling mediums, plays a central role in this process. Thus, Film as Propaganda is less an exception and more a defining characteristic of artistic expression.
Importantly, recognising this does not diminish the artistic value of cinema. A film can be ideologically driven and still be aesthetically compelling, emotionally resonant, and socially meaningful. The problem arises only when the term “propaganda” is used selectively—to discredit certain narratives while normalising others. Such usage obscures the fact that all films, to varying degrees, participate in shaping public consciousness.
Ultimately, the designation of a film as propaganda cannot be determined through objective criteria alone. Intent, reception, and even commercial success offer only partial insights. What truly shapes this label is the viewer’s interpretive framework—their beliefs, biases, and expectations. In this sense, Film as Propaganda is as much about the audience as it is about the filmmaker.
Cinema, therefore, must be approached with both critical awareness and aesthetic appreciation. Rather than dismissing films as mere propaganda, it is more productive to ask: what perspectives do they privilege, and why? What realities do they highlight, and which do they omit? By engaging with these questions, audiences can move beyond binary judgments and develop a more nuanced understanding of the complex relationship between art, ideology, and power.
