Hollywood's Hagiography Problem
Like the sun rising from the East, He slowly walks in from the right. His simple white dhoti glows against the coarse dirt. His walking stick sways with purpose. The crowd ahead shuffles to clear a path and let this effulgent figure glide among them. As he passes, the group reconverges behind him in huddled idolatry. So began Gandhi’s 24-day walk to the sea in protest of unfair tax on Indians under the yoke of British imperialism.
Or at least that's what it looks like in the movie. Richard Attenborough’s 1982 film Gandhi is a storytelling masterclass, but one aspect of the film’s allure is its manufacture of Gandhi as a saintly figure. He is often bathed in soft, ethereal light, granting him an aura of holiness. His pure white clothing contrasts with the dark-suited British, visually reinforcing his purity and detachment from materialism. His word quiets rooms and his presence moves masses. Even when he dies from an assassin's bullet, he collapses into his nieces’ arms like Christ and the Virgin Mary in the Pietà.
Filmmakers often claim to bring history to life, but Hollywood just as often falls into the trap of exalting historical figures instead of examining their nuance. It broaches hagiography: the writing of the lives of saints. Gandhi is just one example. In Lawrence of Arabia and Schindler’s List, T.E. Lawrence and Oskar Schindler are cast as figures with unblemished moral lucidity. When Lawrence completes his daring crossing of the Nefud Desert, he emerges as a messiah rather than a man. The expansive oblivion of sand surrounding him exaggerates his individuality and grandeur.
In Schindler’s List, Schindler is selectively bathed in soft light while watching the liquidation of the Krakow Ghetto, showing that only he is not caught up in the hypnosis of Nazi mania. In the famous Girl with the Red Coat sequence, he alone perceives her tragic fate. That moment sparks his transformation into a savior figure.
Beyond visuals, these films construct sainthood through narrative choices that streamline messy realities. Gandhi presents its protagonist as an unwavering symbol of nonviolence, downplaying his political pragmatism, personal doubts, and controversial views. The film is evasive about his real-life methods or their consequences, making him seem almost otherworldly in his moral perfection.
T.E. Lawrence, in reality, was similarly a deeply conflicted figure, torn between his loyalties to the crown and his growing awareness of British imperial hypocrisy. Lawrence of Arabia frames him as a sole visionary, reducing the agency of the Arab fighters he led. By placing him at the center of every pivotal decision, the film transforms a complex military strategist into a quasi-mystical hero.
Schindler’s List likewise risks flattening its protagonist into a savior archetype. While the real Oskar Schindler was an economic opportunist whose motives evolved over time, Spielberg’s film emphasizes his selflessness, especially in poignant moments like his tearful breakdown over “not saving more lives.” While the moment is emotionally potent, it also reinforces the image of a singular, noble rescuer, sidelining the power of Jewish resistance and survival strategies.
There is an undeniable appeal in transforming historical figures into saints. It offers audiences a clear moral framework, presenting individuals as beacons of justice and heroism. But this approach also risks oversimplification. By elevating historical figures to the near-divine, films strip away contradictions, making people easier to admire but harder to understand. They become almost inhuman. The entertainment remains, but the nuance is lost.
While cinema needs heroes, it also needs complexity. These epics are great, but true greatness does not come from flawlessness. It comes from struggle, doubt, and imperfection. The mark of a true historical epic is not in the making of a saint, but in allowing its subject to remain human.