Cinema is a potent vehicle for societal reflection, critique of authority, and the cultivation of empathy. However, when a motion picture selectively manipulates historical facts to advance a political narrative, it functions as propaganda rather than artistic expression. The Bengal Files, directed by Vivek Ranjan Agnihotri, exemplifies this phenomenon. The film presents historical events through an exceptionally partial lens, raising serious questions regarding its fidelity to the historical record and its potential influence on public perception. From a legal and ethical standpoint, the deliberate distortion of history can undermine informed discourse and manipulate collective memory for ideological purposes.
The film is set in the turbulent period of 1946–1947 Bengal, encompassing Direct Action Day, the Noakhali riots, and other episodes of communal violence. These events were undeniably tragic, and their remembrance is crucial. However, the narrative reduces multifaceted historical realities to a simplistic “victims versus aggressors” framework. Hindus are depicted almost exclusively as helpless victims, while Muslim political actors and mobs are cast solely as perpetrators. This portrayal offers little nuance and largely omits the broader socio-political context, raising concerns about selective representation and the distortion of collective memory.
Dialogues in The Bengal Files further underscore its polemical tenor. One character chillingly asserts:
“Jab yeh illegal immigrants ten percent ho jaate hai, toh yeh vote bank ban jaate hai … bees percent ho jaane par yeh apne rights ki demand karte hai … aur tees percent hote hi naye country ki demand karte hai (When these illegal immigrants reach ten percent, they become a vote bank … at twenty percent, they start demanding their rights … and at thirty percent, they demand a new country)”.
This line insinuates that demographic changes are part of a deliberate political strategy, tapping into contemporary anxieties about identity, nationhood, and political power. Another character claims:
“Yeh Bharat nahi hai, yeh Pashchim Bengal hai. Yaha pe do constitution chalta hai. Ek Hinduon ka, aur dusra yeh Musalmaano ka (This is not India, this is West Bengal. Here, two constitutions operate: one for Hindus, and another for Muslims)”.
The invocation of “dual constitutions” fosters perceptions of deep division and mutual distrust, portraying the Muslim community as inherently oppositional.
A further example is provided by a character who envisions a Muslim occupying India’s Prime Ministerial office:
“Apna naam bata. Taimur. Lekin socho, san 2050, jab yeh India ka pehle yuvaa minority prime minister banega, tab humaari democracy ki kitni badi jeet hogi (Tell me your name.” “Taimur.” “But just imagine, the year 2050, when he becomes India’s first young minority Prime Minister, think of how great a victory it will be for our democracy).”
Although speculative, this dialogue frames political change as a threat rather than a democratic evolution, leveraging fear to influence audience perception. Collectively, these lines illustrate how selective scripting can manipulate historical memory and contemporary political discourse, raising ethical and socio-legal questions about the responsibility of the media.
Beyond its dialogues, the film relies on visceral visuals to heighten its impact. Scenes depicting massacres, beheadings, and sexual violence are rendered in graphic detail. As noted in the NDTV review, the film is “disturbingly graphic, gory and gruesome.” While cinematic portrayals of violence are not inherently objectionable, here they appear less aimed at illuminating historical truth and more focused on eliciting intense emotional reactions that align with a specific communal narrative. The prioritization of shock over contextual analysis is a hallmark of propaganda, manipulating audience emotions to reinforce a particular ideological perspective.
The timing and context of the film’s release further reinforce its interpretation as a propagandist work. It premiered amid ongoing political campaigns in West Bengal, a state where identity politics remain particularly sensitive. As India Today reported, the release “has sparked political fire over the state’s past,” with debates extending beyond cinematic critique to encompass electoral and communal tensions. Propaganda is most potent when it taps into preexisting anxieties, and the film appears strategically positioned to do so.
Supporters contend that the movie sheds light on historically underrepresented events. Actor Mithun Chakraborty defended the film, asserting to ABP Live, “If we show the truth, it’s called propaganda.” While this defense frames the film as an exercise in historical revelation, a critical reading suggests that selective storytelling and emotionally charged depictions blur the line between historical representation and ideological messaging.
Director Vivek Agnihotri asserts that mainstream narratives have historically downplayed the suffering of Hindus in Bengal. While such intentions may be genuine, intent alone does not shield a work from scrutiny. When historical events are presented selectively, excessively dramatized, and stripped of contextual nuance, the risk of misleading audiences and exacerbating societal divides becomes significant.
Critics have been nearly unanimous in highlighting the film’s agenda-driven storytelling. Cinema Express described it as “reeks of propaganda” and a work that “strives to incite, not introspect.” This critique aligns with the assessment of The Hindu, which panned the film for transforming historical tragedy into a vehicle for present-day political messaging, rather than fostering reflection or reconciliation.
This illustrates the essence of cinematic propaganda: not the invention of events, but the selective framing of truth. By exaggerating specific narratives, projecting fear, and reducing historical complexity to a binary of victim and aggressor, The Bengal Files shapes audience perception in a calculated manner.
The Bengal Files is not merely a historical retelling; it is a narrative filtered through an ideological lens. It relies on selective storytelling, emotionally charged dialogues, and graphic depictions that function less as historical analysis and more as a tool of propaganda. By presenting events in a skewed and one-dimensional way, it risks distorting collective memory, shaping public perception, and inflaming communal tensions. Cinema has the capacity to educate, provoke reflection, and foster empathy, but when used to advance a partisan narrative, it must be scrutinized for its ethical and legal implications. Audiences deserve portrayals of history that are accurate, nuanced, and reflective, not portrayals that exploit tragedy, amplify divisions, or manipulate sentiment to serve contemporary political ends. A film may claim to highlight underrepresented perspectives, but as the critical reception proves, selective framing and emotionally charged dramatization blur the line between storytelling and agenda-driven messaging, making critical engagement by viewers more necessary than ever.
