The popular film is low-brow, modernising India in all its complexity, sophistry, naivete´ and vulgarity. Studying popular film is studying Indian modernity at its rawest, its crudities laid bare by the fate of traditions in contemporary life and arts.” — Ashis Nandy, 1998

On April 19, India’s grand democratic spectacle commenced—the world’s largest election, wherein nearly 970 million individuals—constituting over 10 per cent of the global population—stand eligible to cast votes in the general elections lasting until June 1. This colossal exercise, spanning 44 days, culminates in the announcement of results on June 4.

Amidst this electoral fervour, Prime Minister Narendra Modi of the Bharatiya Janata Party is vying for a historic third consecutive term, confronting a formidable coalition of 41 opposition parties led by the Indian National Congress. Aptly named the Indian National Developmental Inclusive Alliance, this heterogeneous alliance aims to wrest power from the ruling National Democratic Alliance government.

The stage is set for an epic clash of ideologies and aspirations, encapsulating the essence of Indian democracy in its most expansive and spirited form.

In the throes of the impending general election, authorities are diligently implementing the Model Code of Conduct, triggered immediately after the election dates were announced. The MCC serves as a regulatory framework to oversee the conduct of political parties and their candidates in the lead-up to elections, outlining stringent rules governing campaign activities, public gatherings, processions and manifesto contents. Conspicuously absent from the MCC’s purview are commercially released films, which are increasingly denounced as overt propaganda vehicles for the ruling alliance.

A majoritarian fiction

Every half decade witnesses the influx of a fresh cohort of voters, ushering in new ideologies through the diffusion of a curated selection of films that function as potent political campaigns. In this choreography of power, a convenient alliance has emerged between Bollywood - the Hindi cinema industry largely based in Mumbai - and the corridors of the current regime.

In recent years, a wave of films has surged to the forefront of addressing contemporary political fault lines, exemplified by titles such as The Kashmir Files (2022) and The Kerala Story (2023), each donning the mantle of frontline campaigners for the forthcoming elections, in perfect alignment with the ruling coalition’s interests.

According to a report by Al Jazeera, nearly ten movies that glorify PM Modi’s ‘new India’ image have been released or are slated for release before the 2024 Lok Sabha elections.

The recent release of Swatantra Veer Savarkar, marking Bollywood actor Randeep Hooda’s directorial debut and Razakar: The Silent Genocide of Hyderabad, a Telugu-language epic historical drama by Yata Satyanarayana, highlights a trend in cinema exploring British colonisation and Indian independence.

Vinayak Damodar Savarkar is a polarising Hindu nationalist leader and activist whom Modi has praised for his resistance against British rule. However, Savarkar’s writings endorse violence against Muslims and embrace the Nazis and Italian fascists.

These films are captivating their intended audiences with their historical narratives, delving into the political landscapes that shaped India’s history. The narrative spun by these movies validates and amplifies the demographic apprehensions harboured by certain segments of Indian society, fostering the notion that one community’s growth and prosperity come at the expense of others. This happens during the process of rewriting and prioritising their own version of history as the conservative factions persist in drumming up the spectre and grasping at straws to maintain a semblance of control in a society undergoing rapid transformation.

Take, for example, how the two films, Accident or Conspiracy: Godhra and The Sabarmati Report, dramatise the tragic Godhra train burning incident where 59 Hindu pilgrims and karsevaks were burnt to death, a catalyst for the infamous 2002 Gujarat riots. They purport to unveil the ‘truth.’ Likewise, Aakhir Palaayan Kab Tak? [Until when will we need to flee?] portrays a Hindu ‘exodus’ ostensibly attributed to Muslims. Bastar: The Naxal Story, showed the decades-long conflict between the Indian forces and the left-wing militia in central India. In February, the film Article 370, which delves into the revocation of Jammu and Kashmir’s special status in 2019, garnered praise from Prime Minister Narendra Modi during a public gathering in Jammu.

The film industry has benefited from political endorsements and tax exemptions. As films supporting the BJP’s narrative continue to see frequent releases, streaming platforms like Netflix and Amazon have encountered legal challenges and removals of series and films perceived as critical of the government. The pervasive cultural imposition has reached an inescapable threshold, making its influence increasingly challenging to evade.

These films, steeped in propaganda, deftly mobilise Indian voters, particularly the youthful demographic, to endorse specific political agendas. They act as vehicles that rewrite history, expunging events like the Gujarat riots from collective memory and presenting a sanitised narrative of the past. As cultural and historical ties continue to fray, the landscape becomes fertile ground for the construction of tailored narratives that resonate with new voters. Herein lies the pivotal role of propaganda cinema in shaping public perception and political allegiance.

Since the 2019 general elections, it has become apparent that their motives transcend mere financial gains. This trend emerged in January 2019 with Aditya Dhar’s Uri: The Surgical Strike and Vijay Gutte’s The Accidental Prime Minister. Uri portrayed the Indian Army’s surgical retaliation to the 2016 attack in Kashmir’s Uri district, while The Accidental Prime Minister offered a critical perspective on former PM Manmohan Singh’s tenure.

In recent years, a wave of films has surged to the forefront of addressing contemporary political fault lines, exemplified by titles such as The Kashmir Files (2022) and The Kerala Story (2023), each donning the mantle of frontline campaigners for the forthcoming elections.

Notably, these films, released before the 2019 Lok Sabha elections, reflect a strategic engagement between PM Modi and the Hindi film industry. PM Modi’s interactions with Bollywood personalities, such as the interview with Akshay Kumar, strategically project an image of a thoughtful and engaged leader.

Deliberately crafted to sway specific viewpoints, these films appear to harbour a broader agenda. In India, the impact of cinema endures long after the credits roll. Viewers engage in discussions about these films and while they may not accept them as gospel truth, these narratives subtly alter perceptions and reshape the political landscape. The ruling party aims to replicate this influence in the upcoming elections.

Shaping public culture

Ashis Nandy delves into the notion that popular films in India are more than just entertainment; they are a vivid portrayal of the nation’s modern identity in its most unrefined form. These films capture the complexity, sophistication, innocence and crudeness of contemporary Indian life, offering an unfiltered view of how traditional values and norms are being reshaped or challenged in the modern era.

By studying these films, one studies the raw essence of Indian modernity—how it handles the legacy of its past and the demands of its present. These films serve as caricatures, where elements of Indian society are exaggerated to reveal deeper truths about cultural shifts and contradictions. The potency of cinema in shaping historical narratives extends beyond academic discourse, occupying a prominent space in the public imagination. Indian cinema’s rendition of history transcends factual accuracy, relying instead on imagery, narrative and artistic interpretation. It revels in disinformation and hearsay, emphasising emotional resonance over empirical truth.

Through its portrayal of India’s past, cinema not only depicts historical events but also mirrors contemporary values and cultural dynamics. Each film acts as a reflection of the era in which it was produced, offering profound insights into societal beliefs and collective consciousness. In the realm of Indian cinema, history transforms into a dynamic, evolving narrative intertwined with popular culture and societal norms.

Moreover, Nandy suggests that popular cinema is what might emerge if the Indian middle class were left to shape its own cultural expressions unchecked. It could lead to self-indulgent or trivial cultural outcomes that might not align with refined artistic standards but are nonetheless revealing. This kind of cinema, while often disowned by the more discerning or elite segments of society, comes back to haunt the collective consciousness of modern India in fantastical or monstrous forms. It acts as a reflection of the neglected or rejected aspects of Indian modernity, challenging the viewer to confront these aspects as integral parts of the national identity.

In watching these films, one studies the raw essence of Indian modernity—how it handles the legacy of its past and the demands of its present.

Cinema and

propaganda

A cursory look into history of cinema reveals that it has been a technology of propaganda. Defined by a surge of nationalism, this medium of the 20^th Century rapidly evolved into a potent tool of persuasion. Think of DW Griffith’s Birth of a Nation in the United States; Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin in Soviet Russia; and Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will in Nazi Germany; not to mention the propaganda films during the Cold War era that portrayed America as the epitome of freedom.

But in the 1920s, the anti-colonial struggle did not see any major role of cinema. Some scholars have blamed this on Mahatma Gandhi. Gandhi’s disdain for cinema was expressed during the Indian Cinematograph Committee in 1927: “Even if I were inclined, I would be unfit to answer your questionnaire, as I have never been to a cinema. But even to an outsider, the harm that it has done and continues to do is evident. Any good it may have achieved remains unproven.” He saw in his life parts of three films; notably the longest was Ram Rajya in 1945.

Gandhi did not go unchallenged though on the role of cinema in the freedom struggle. It was S Satyamurthy, the president of the South India Film Chamber of Commerce and mayor of Madras, who envisioned the potential of utilising performing arts for political ends. Amidst widespread condemnation of cinema by the elite as culturally demeaning, Satyamurthy’s endorsement of the medium offered a transformative perspective. It is not surprising that in the history of Tamil cinema, by 1937, the emergence of explicit nationalist propaganda in films was palpable. The British perceived cinema as a potent tool of political propaganda, a direct challenge to their colonial dominance.

‘Making a political film’ or ‘making film

politically’

Trinh T Minh-ha, a renowned filmmaker and scholar, fleshes out the nuance of the landscape of filmmaking and politics and delves into the profound complexities of artistic representation and intent. By distinguishing between ‘making a political film’ and ‘making film politically,’ she invites us into a layered conversation about the essence and impact of cinematic creation.

In her view, making a political film is a straightforward endeavour—select a political issue and explore it through narrative, imagery and character, laying the issue before the audience like a piece of evidence in a trial. This approach often aims to persuade or inform, functioning as a direct channel of communication between the filmmaker and the audience about specific societal critiques or calls to action.

However, Minh-ha’s deeper contemplation on ‘making film politically’ transforms the act of filmmaking into a radical gesture of resistance and inquiry. Here, the focus shifts from what the film portrays to how it portrays it, turning the lens back on the medium itself. This method scrutinises the politics of representation, challenging the traditional frameworks and techniques used in filmmaking. It questions the very processes of knowing, seeing and crafting stories, thus politicising not just the content but also the form—how stories are told, whose voices are amplified and whose visions are realised.

Through this lens, every cut, angle and frame in a film becomes a political statement, every narrative choice a reflection of deeper cultural currents. This way of making film politically does not merely seek to tell a story about the world; it seeks to change the way we see the world through film. It’s an endeavour that underscores the filmmaker’s role not just as a storyteller, but as a critical observer of society, a disruptor of the status quo and an architect of visual discourse.

Minh-ha’s insight redefines the power of cinema, positioning it as a dynamic field of cultural production capable of influencing both the individual consciousness and the collective social fabric. In essence, the distinction she makes invites filmmakers and audiences alike to engage with cinema not only as a mirror reflecting reality but as a hammer with which to shape it.

Narendra Pachkhédé is a critic and writer. Currently, he splits his time between Toronto, London and Geneva