Fascism on Film Podcast

James and Teal discuss Walter Salles’ Oscar-winning film, ”I’m Still Here” on the Season 2 finale of ”Fascism on Film.”

Ari Aster’s ”Eddington” shows what happens when every belief system collapses at once—religion, politics, community, even reality itself. It’s the kind of fractured world where fascism takes root.

Released just months after Hitler came to power, "Hans Westmar" stands as one of the earliest cinematic expressions of Nazi ideology. Ostensibly a biopic of Horst Wessel—the Sturmabteilung (SA) activist turned martyr whose death became a rallying cry for the Nazi movement—the film dramatizes the transformation of a young man from aimless nationalist to disciplined Nazi believer. But more than a tale of political awakening, "Hans Westmar" is a ritualized myth of sacrifice: a cinematic hymn to obedience, struggle, and death in the service of the Volk. This episode dissects the film’s calculated use of martyrdom, racialized othering, and aestheticized violence to forge the ideal fascist subject. What does it mean to “die for Germany”? Who is seen as the enemy within? And how does the myth of redemptive bloodshed sustain fascist ideology on screen?

This week’s film, Casablanca, is an examination of anti-fascist propaganda from Hollywood as a reminder that America can not afford to be neutral in the cause of world peace and freedom.

This week’s episode takes a look at the Nazi occupation of France in François Truffaut’s ”The Last Metro,” a must-see film from 1980.

In this episode of the Fascism on Film Podcast, we look at Mr. Klein (1976), Joseph Losey’s haunting story of identity, complicity, and erasure in Nazi-occupied France. Alain Delon plays Robert Klein, a Paris art dealer who lives comfortably off the desperation of others, buying paintings and possessions from Jewish families needing to flee persecution. He’s charming, detached, and perfectly suited to the opportunism of wartime Paris until the day a Jewish newspaper arrives in his mail, addressed to “Mr. Klein.” Trying to prove he is not that Mr. Klein, he enters a maze of bureaucracy that slowly consumes him. What begins as a misunderstanding becomes an obsession and, finally, a collapse of identity. Losey’s film moves between realism and dream. Mirrored rooms double Klein’s reflection, a grotesque cabaret mocking Jewish caricatures, and the quiet efficiency of the French police preparing for the 1942 Vel’ d’Hiv roundup. Beneath the surface elegance lies what we call the “machinery of murder” a portrait of fascism carried out through paperwork, compliance, and silence. We discuss how Mr. Klein reveals fascism not as spectacle but as routine, and how easily a society can lose its moral center when categorizing people for persecution becomes routine bureaucracy. Watching it today, the parallels are chilling. Join us as we unpack Mr. Klein, a story that asks what happens when the system decides who you are and how easily anyone can disappear inside it.

In the season 1 finale episode of Fascism on Film, we turn to Paul Verhoeven’s "Starship Troopers," a gory, flamboyant, and darkly hilarious satire that asks viewers to confront their own appetite for militarism, propaganda, and authoritarian spectacle. Released in 1997 and adapted (loosely and subversively) from Robert A. Heinlein’s 1959 novel, the film uses the grammar of classic war movies to tell the story of a society where service guarantees citizenship, where democracy has failed, and where a perpetual war machine feeds on loyalty, violence, and spectacle. Propaganda as entertainment: Verhoeven replaces the opening title cards common in war films with a “Federal Network” commercial—state‑run media commanding the audience: “Would you like to know more?” Recruitment videos, live battlefield feeds, and grotesque lab footage turn war into a televised brand, complete with slogans: “We have the ships. We have the weapons. We need soldiers!” Militarism as a civic religion: In this world, only those who serve in the military earn the right to vote. A high‑school teacher (Michael Ironside) lectures students that “violence has resolved more issues throughout history than any other factor,” a mantra repeated until it becomes gospel. Fascist aesthetics played straight—then satirized: Nazi‑inspired uniforms, brutalist eagles, banners, chants, and blood sacrifices permeate the mise‑en‑scène. Verhoeven draws directly from Triumph of the Will while exaggerating those tropes to absurdity. The construction of the enemy: The Arachnids are depicted as both pathetic and existentially threatening—a core contradiction of fascist propaganda. They are not just an enemy; they are a species to be eradicated. The audience is invited to cheer at genocide, then left uneasy with that reaction. The illusion of choice: Echoing Edward Bernays’ Propaganda (1928), the film shows how a regime offers superficial choices while shaping thought at every level. The viewer’s cursor clicks “Would you like to know more?” but every path leads back to the same militaristic narrative. The humor and horror of complicity: Verhoeven’s satire is deliberately unsubtle—Rico, Carmen, and Carl are glamorous poster-children for the regime, even as they march deeper into moral compromise. When a captured “brain bug” is tortured and soldiers cheer, we are forced to ask: Who are we rooting for? While this is the end of our first season, it is by no means the last. We plan to be back in mid-to-late October with a whole new season of movies that examine fascism.

Italian filmmaking master, Federico Fellini, takes a nostalgic look at his early life as a teenager in fascist Italy with his final masterpiece, 1973's "Amarcord." While this film is not heavy on the violent and repressive aspects of fascism, it does offer an intricate portrait of a town mostly at ease with its repressive government. Filled with many classic Fellini moments and characters, this time Fellini uses his canvas to portray Italian citizens trapped in a fool's paradise, unable to see the horrors that will befall the country in a few short years.

This week, James and Teal take listeners back to where Fascism officially started, Italy, with Bernardo Bertolucci's 1970 film, "The Conformist." The movie is a cautionary tale on the human desire to fit in, and how fascism bends its will on a people, and its architecture. This movie is a dazzling array of set design and color cinematography that amazes, shocks, seduces, and leaves the audience spellbound.

This episode examines how early American cinema didn’t reflect ideology—it actively shaped American political imagination through opposing forms of propaganda. In "The Birth of a Nation," white supremacist violence is transfigured into sacred national myth, glorifying the Ku Klux Klan as heroic saviors. "The Birth of a Nation" is still one of the most shocking and abhorrent works of cinema, and yet, we believe historians are reluctant to fully dismiss this film, one we see lacking in any merit or societal value. We don't recommend you see this film, but we encourage you to listen to our thoughts on it, and how we arrive at the conclusion that this movie, intentional or otherwise, serves as a template for European fascism that would soon threaten an entire world.

This episode of the Fascism on Film Podcast centers on István Szabó’s "Mephisto" (1981), a haunting study of artistic compromise under fascism. Loosely based on the life of actor Gustaf Gründgens, the film follows Hendrik Höfgen, a talented but insecure stage actor in Nazi Germany, who ascends to national fame after aligning himself with the regime. Höfgen does not believe in fascist ideology—he considers himself apolitical, a man of the theater. But through a series of seemingly small decisions, he trades principle for opportunity until he becomes a mouthpiece for totalitarianism. The episode explores how fascism recruits artists and intellectuals, not only to serve its ideology but to sanctify it with prestige and style. We examine the roles of ambition, vanity, self-deception, and silence in the making of complicity. The question is not just why people betray others—but why they betray themselves. For more episodes, visit: fascismonfilm.com.

On this episode of the Fascism on Film Podcast, we focus on the 1972 film, "Cabaret," James and Teal introduce the guiding ideas behind Fascism on Film: that cinema is not simply a record of political events but one of the primary arenas where fascism is imagined, stylized, reproduced, and resisted. For the series, we will explore how fascism expresses itself through regimes and ideologies, images, gestures, narratives, tones, and aesthetic forms that live on in the cultural unconscious. This episode explores the collapse of democratic culture in the Weimar Republic through the lens of Bob Fosse’s "Cabaret"(1972). Set in Berlin during the early 1930s, the film depicts the slow-motion unraveling of liberal society, where decadence and denial mask the encroachment of fascist power. Rather than portraying Nazis as an external threat, "Cabaret" shows them as emerging from the very heart of a fractured society—at once ignored, tolerated, and eventually embraced. The episode investigates how art, performance, sexuality, and political evasion interweave with rising authoritarianism. "Cabaret" becomes a parable for the death of democracy by distraction: it asks whether culture can resist collapse—or whether it dances on as the world burns.