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On a grey evening in west London, the air inside the shopping complex at Westfield was thick with anticipation. Fans had gathered not just for a film, but for an experience—a chance to step back into the brutal, gleaming world of Panem. Among them, Ralph Fiennes moved through the crowd with the quiet, measured presence he brings to so many of his roles. Yet tonight, he wasn’t just an actor at a premiere; he was the embodiment of authoritarian menace, clad in the immaculate white uniform of Coriolanus Snow, the calculating president whose ideology of control and order has haunted audiences for years. The occasion was a fan screening of The Hunger Games: Sunrise on the Reaping, the latest, most politically charged instalment in the dystopian franchise based on Suzanne Collins’s beloved novels. As Fiennes posed for photographs and offered brief, thoughtful remarks, the film itself hung in the air between the screen and the audience, a reminder of how fiction can function as a mirror for our own anxieties. Directed by Francis Lawrence, this new chapter pulls back the curtain on a younger Snow’s rise to ruthless power, chronicling the harrowing journey of a boy named Haymitch Abernathy, played with raw intensity by Joseph Zada, who is forced into the 50th Hunger Games. This time, however, the rules are crueller: twice as many tributes, two boys and two girls from each district, are thrust into the televised slaughter. It is a spectacle designed to terrify and distract, but beneath the spectacle lies a quieter, more insidious machinery—the manipulation of truth.
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In an era where misinformation spreads at the speed of a click, Fiennes’s presence at the London screening felt startlingly relevant. Speaking to the Press Association, the 63-year-old actor admitted he is deeply concerned about the prevalence of disinformation in the modern world. His words carried the weight of someone who has spent decades studying human nature, both on the page and on the screen. “I am concerned about it because I think we have information coming at us everywhere,” he reflected, his tone measured yet urgent. What troubled him most was not simply the volume of information, but the deliberate intent behind so much of it. Governments, he noted, “put out what they want in their propaganda.” The press, too, he observed with a critical eye, is not always accurate. “I think there’s bias in the press, whether it’s left wing or right wing. Journalists are positioned to write stories with a certain slant often, not always.” Coming from an actor who has portrayed historical figures and moral monsters alike, these words resonate. Fiennes is not dismissing journalism outright; rather, he is asking us to remain alert, to question the narratives we are fed, and to recognize that storytelling—even when wrapped in the language of fact—can be a weapon. It is a perspective that his character, President Snow, would understand all too well, for Snow’s power rests not on military might alone, but on his ability to craft a story that keeps the districts divided and compliant.
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What made Fiennes’s remarks so humanizing was his broader concern about the state of the world beyond screens and headlines. “We see politicians deliberately twisting the facts about their opposites, their enemies,” he said, pointing to the deliberate, corrosive practice of turning political opposition into existential threat. This is the familiar language of division, the playbook of demagogues who thrive on fear. And yet, the actor’s voice softened when he spoke about what is missing. “What’s disturbing is the lack of a humanitarian, a reaching out to heal and to solve divisions. We only see countries polarising into enmity.” In that sentence, Fiennes revealed something deeply personal: a longing for leadership that seeks to unite rather than fracture. He acknowledged that anger is often justified. “Often people have reasons to be full of anger, but I think we need the great healing figures.” It is a plea that feels almost spiritual, a reminder that politics, at its best, should be an act of care, not conquest. Yet he observed, with a slight shake of his head, that we live in a world where everyone is looking for a fight. “They need the information to help them win the fight.” This insight sits at the heart of the new film, where propaganda is not just a background detail but the engine of the plot. Footage leading up to and during the Games is manipulated, carefully edited to ensure that the Capitol’s power is never questioned, that the rebellion never finds its spark. In such a world, truth is the first casualty, and empathy is a luxury few can afford.
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For those unfamiliar with the story, The Hunger Games: Sunrise on the Reaping revisits a dark turning point in Panem’s history: the 50th annual Hunger Games, often called the Second Quarter Quell. This is the year of Haymitch Abernathy, a boy from District 12 who would grow into the cynical, alcoholic mentor that Katniss Everdeen meets in the original trilogy. But in this film, Haymitch is not yet broken. He is a young man with fire in his eyes and a will to survive, entering an arena where the stakes have been deliberately heightened for the sake of spectacle. The Capitol, ever the master of ceremony, has decreed that twice as many tributes will fight, and the resulting bloodbath is broadcast to every corner of the nation. Yet the true battle, as the film reveals, is not fought with swords or spears but with images and stories. The regime of Coriolanus Snow understands that control is maintained not by overwhelming force alone, but by shaping what people believe to be real. Every camera angle is a choice, every piece of footage a potential weapon. The film’s portrayal of this manipulation feels uncomfortably familiar, echoing today’s political ads, deepfakes, and algorithmically amplified outrage. Fiennes’s Snow is not a cartoonish villain but a patient, terrifyingly intelligent architect of consent. He speaks in calm, measured tones, cloaking his cruelty in the language of order and stability. It is a performance that forces the audience to confront the seductive, bureaucratic nature of authoritarianism—and to recognize that it rarely announces itself with a dramatic flourish, but rather with a quiet, relentless rewriting of facts.
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As an actor, Fiennes has always been drawn to complexity, to characters who trouble the boundary between good and evil. His Snow is no exception. In the original novels and films, Snow appears as an older, more polished tyrant, but here we see the seeds of that monster. The film lingers on his youthful ambitions, his careful calculation, his ability to recognize the power of a single image. Fiennes brings a chilling humanity to the role, suggesting that Snow’s monstrousness stems not from madness but from a twisted logic, a belief that only through absolute control can peace be achieved. This is what makes him so unsettling—and so relevant. The actor’s own reflections on disinformation illuminate his approach to the character. If Snow is ultimately a propagandist, then Fiennes’s performance is a study in how people convince themselves that lying for a good cause is permissible. It is also a warning about the ease with which we can slip into ideological rigidity, trading nuance for certainty and compassion for victory. Mckenna Grace, who also appeared at the London screening, joins the cast in a key role, adding yet another layer of emotional complexity to the story. Together, the actors navigate a world where pain is weaponized, where grief is exploited, and where every gesture of kindness is potentially a trap. Yet even in this bleak landscape, the film seems to be asking a deeper question: can the truth be restored once it has been shattered? Fiennes’s answer, through his performance, is both pessimistic and cautiously hopeful—pessimistic because he knows how easy it is to break trust, hopeful because the very act of telling a story like this one, of exposing the mechanisms of manipulation, is also an act of resistance.
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The Hunger Games: Sunrise on the Reaping arrives in cinemas on November 20, and it could not come at a more charged moment. As audiences around the world grapple with fractured politics, distrust in institutions, and the strange, alienating experience of living inside a constant information stream, this film offers something more than entertainment. It offers a mirror. Fiennes’s quiet, thoughtful commentary invites us to look at ourselves—not just at the characters on screen, but at the societies we have built. Are we, like the citizens of Panem, drifting toward a state where truth is merely a tool of power? Are we, like the tributes in the arena, fighting not for justice but for survival within rules designed by the wealthy and the ruthless? These are uncomfortable questions, and a lesser film might shy away from them. But Collins’s story, adapted with care by Francis Lawrence, insists on asking them anyway. At the London screening, Fiennes’s presence grounded the event in something real and human. He was not merely promoting a blockbuster; he was inviting us to consider the relationship between power and truth, information and belief, fear and hope. In a world that often feels like it is spiralling into enmity, his call for political healing—for leaders who dare to reach across divides—offers a small, necessary light. Perhaps, as the credits roll and the lights come up, we will be reminded that the real battle is not between districts or parties, but between the stories that separate us and the stories that bring us together. And maybe, through films like this one, we can begin to imagine a way out of the arena—one honest, human connection at a time.