1977's "A Special Day" is a heartfelt romance of Hitler and Mussolini’s infamous cementing of their two nations culminated in a 24-hour Roman holiday. No, but it is set on the same day as that day-long event. However, in the Roman suburbs, we get a different meeting of two mismatched strangers, Marcello Mastroianni and Sophia Loren bring a story of humanity and heartbreak set amidst the backdrop of a political ideology that doesn’t allow homosexuality. "A Special Day" is a masterwork of cinema, and a dive into a world under fascism's rule.

In this episode, James and Teal tackle Ari Aster’s "Eddington," a dark, surprising film set in the earliest days of COVID—when fear, isolation, and conspiracy thinking were reshaping the country in real time. They discuss Joaquin Phoenix’s unraveling sheriff, the town’s descent into misinformation, and the chaotic final act that blurs the line between protest and false-flag operation. It’s one of Aster’s most unsettling films, and a direct reflection on the world we’re living in now.

Paul Thomas Anderson's "One Battle After Another" is both a thrilling action film, and a mirror-holding look at current American society. Baked into its absurdist right vs. leftist fantasy are truths about how each side views the other. Anderson doesn't let anyone off the hook, as he finds the humor in taking each side to a comical extreme. 

Make no mistake, through the humor of "One Battle After Another," it's clear who the villains are, and who pulls the strings. As we see our country move closer and closer to one ruled by a small number of wealthy white elites, some of the craziness that unfolds in this movie doesn't feel quite so far-fetched. 

Although filmed prior to the current administration, Anderson clearly knew where the country was headed, and he becomes one of the first filmmakers to tackle our current political situation head-on. 

This week we examine the first of two modern U.S. filmmaker takes on America today. We'll break down the other in our next episode.

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?

Between 1933 and 1945, more than 1,000 feature films were produced under the Nazi regime—most of them not overtly propagandistic, but melodramas, musicals, comedies, and historical epics. Hitler’s Hollywood, a 2017 documentary by German critic Rüdiger Suchsland, explores this vast and often overlooked cinematic universe. Narrated by Udo Kier in haunted tones, the film argues that Nazi cinema was not just an arm of propaganda but a total fantasy system—an attempt to reprogram reality through spectacle, myth, and longing.

This episode goes beyond the documentary to ask: How does a fascist regime use film not just to control, but to enchant? How do escapist romances and sentimental dramas reinforce authoritarian ideals? And what happens when a culture begins to dream fascist dreams?

Romance as Resistance: ‘Casablanca’

In this episode of Fascism on Film, we look at Michael Curtiz’s Casablanca (1942), one of Hollywood’s most enduring films and one of its quietest acts of persuasion. Beneath the romance and intrigue, Casablanca tells a story of political awakening—about a man, a city, and a country choosing between indifference and action against fascism.

We discuss how Humphrey Bogart’s Rick Blaine, with his famous line that he “sticks his neck out for nobody,” becomes a stand-in for prewar America. The film’s emotional arc mirrors the nation’s own shift—from cynicism and self-interest to moral conviction. By the time Rick helps Victor Laszlo escape and sacrifices his own happiness, his personal redemption becomes a metaphor for America joining the fight for democracy.

The film’s characters form a map of the moral landscape of World War II: Rick as the disillusioned American, Ilsa as a divided Europe, Laszlo as the conscience of the resistance, Renault as the opportunist, and Strasser as the face of authoritarian power. Casablanca’s brilliance lies in how emotion becomes politics—a love story turned into a lesson in courage.

Behind the camera, many of the film’s cast and crew were refugees from fascism—Conrad Veidt, Peter Lorre, Madeleine Lebeau, and Curtiz himself. Their real experiences give the movie its emotional truth; the fear and displacement onscreen were lived, not imagined.

We also explore the film’s mythmaking and legacy. From the Cross of Lorraine hidden in a smuggler’s ring to the swelling of “La Marseillaise” over “Die Wacht am Rhein,” Casablanca builds its resistance through symbols, songs, and small acts of defiance rather than overt politics.

80 years later, Casablanca still holds up a mirror to moments of moral hesitation and reminds us that neutrality is a choice, that romance can be resistance, and that even one person’s decision has meaning in a broken world.

François Truffaut’s "The Last Metro" is a deceptively quiet film about survival, resistance, and performance under Nazi occupation. Set in a Parisian theater during the German occupation of France, the story revolves around a company that tries to continue producing art while hiding the theater’s Jewish director in the basement. Beneath its surface—a war-era romance and backstage drama—is a nuanced meditation on repression, complicity, and cultural resistance.

The title refers not just to the curfew imposed by the occupying forces (forcing audiences and actors alike to catch “the last metro” home) but also to a kind of societal and moral deadline. Everyone must choose whether to act, to pretend, or to disappear.

"The Last Metro" is often read as a metaphor for how artists and intellectuals maneuvered under occupation, and how repression forces performance in every sphere of life. For Truffaut, born in 1932 and whose family had complex wartime allegiances, the film is also a personal reckoning with French memory—how heroism, compromise, and fear intermingle beneath the surface of everyday life.

"The Testament of Dr. Mabuse" is Fritz Lang's 1933 German detective thriller that arrived on the heels of Hilter coming to power, making it the regime's first official 'banned' movie. 

The film is a fascinating look at how an evil ideology spreads beyond one man when that man make it his mission to make evil the rule of law. 

"Mabuse" is a semi-sequel to Lang's masterpiece, "M," and it packs a punch visually and through its innovative use of audio. 

Our discussion hits on its fascist interpretations, some of the misunderstandings about the movie, and the film's place in time when it was created under one set of rules, and ready for release under another.

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.