By characterising them as human, media depicting facist leaders can undermine their propogandised personas while highlighting the public’s mundane suspectibility to despotism. 

Joe Wright’s 8-part series Mussolini: Son of the Century manages many impressive feats. Based on the first book in Antonio Scurati’s M tetralogy, it imbues a story that played out almost a century ago with immediacy. It charts the meteoric rise of Italian fascism in the early 1920s, hinting at its cataclysmic demise two decades later. As political violence ascends and democratic institutions wither away, the show’s unflinching examination of Mussolini in all his contradictory humanity is a constant. Even for those well-acquainted with the life and times of the duce, this particular aspect of Son of the Century is guaranteed to engross and unnerve in equal measure.

Producing a despot biopic is a perilous venture. Downfall (2004), depicting the last days of the Nazi regime, sparked controversy for humanising the perpetrators of heinous crimes against humanity. Yet, to portray dictators like Hitler or Mussolini as anything other than fully human is to buy into their mythologies. Luca Marinelli’s performance as Mussolini in Son of the Century is immense and repugnant. The Guardian’s Philip Oltermann describes him as radiating a ‘diabolical charm’ which dares us to sympathise with the first fascist. Frequent, fourth-wall-breaking asides draw us into the narrative. ‘Follow me. You’ll love me too,’ Marinelli taunts us in one scene. But we never lose sight of the fact that–beneath the braggadocio and the delusions of grandeur–this self-styled ‘new man’ is chronically insecure and shamelessly unscrupulous. There is not a single person or ideal he is not willing to betray in the pursuit of power.  

In sharp contrast, socialist politician Giacomo Matteotti emerges as the closest thing to a ‘hero’ in the latter half of the series. Even as the fascists tighten their grip on power, he remains an increasingly isolated voice in the wilderness – denouncing the black shirts’ use of violence and the fraudulent outcome of the 1924 general election. Ultimately, Matteotti paid for this outspoken criticism with his life, and it was his assassination for which Mussolini claimed responsibility in his now infamous speech before the Chamber of Deputies on 3 January 1925. This moment, which serves as the series’ breathless crescendo, is considered a watershed by many historians. With Matteotti out of the picture, none remained who were prepared to resist the fascist onslaught. Yet, Mussolini’s ‘triumph’ was only enabled by the misjudgements of a sympathetic political establishment and the impotence of a cowed opposition; it was no unstoppable march to power, despite the claims of the regime’s hagiographers. 

The series thereby dispels another of fascism’s favourite fantasies: the idea that its ascendancy was preordained. Mussolini’s movement exploited Italian fears and resentments–not least, memories of a ‘mutilated victory’ in WWI, and widespread fears of a Bolshevik-style revolution [not limited to Italy]. But the National Fascist Party was not handed absolute power by a grateful nation; they instead seized it through the barbaric use of force. Eminent historian of modern Italy John Foot praised Son of the Century for placing ‘the violence of fascism at the centre of the story,’ while also noting that occasional swerves into ‘comedy and farce’ might be off-putting for some viewers. This seems to be part of a deliberate strategy: the use of pulsing techno music, strobe lighting and disorienting cuts throughout the series intentionally unsettle the viewer and blur the boundaries between the historical and the contemporary. 

Son of the Century may be a period piece, but its concerns are all too modern. Wright has said that he wants audiences to be ‘seduced’ by Mussolini. In a complex and chaotic world, there will always be the temptation to submit to the simple answers offered by the ‘strongman’ leader. This echoes Scurati’s reflections on the lessons of the fascist ventennio: ‘All of us were seduced. We have to feel accountable for that chapter in our history.’ Each new moment of grotesque cruelty punctuating the narrative offers a glimpse into the noxious reality behind the shining façade. Not everyone is convinced by the merits of this particular brand of provocation, however. Professor Ruth Ben-Ghiat sees the methodology of inoculation through immersion as ‘paradoxical,’ concerned that the message could be lost in the medium. Still, it’s hard to imagine any viewers leaving with the impression that they should join in cheering for the Duce. 

The goal of the series is neither to venerate Mussolini, nor to vilify him–as Wright has said, the latter only absolves the modern audience of its moral responsibility–but to alert audiences to the cost of inaction and resignation in the face of political violence. The ‘ultimate finger of blame,’ to quote Professor Foot once again, is pointed squarely at ‘those who enabled Mussolini’s rise.’ Those who did nothing were just as complicit in the crimes of fascism as the most loyal squadristi, and all of them were people just like us. Mussolini’s regime nominally aspired to the love of those it ruled, even if it often relied on fear in practice. But a dictator does not need to elicit our sympathy; it is enough to secure our indifference. That is why–whatever the perils and potential controversies involved in creating media such as Son of the Century–it serves a vitally necessary purpose. It reminds us of what Lorenzo Fabbri calls the ‘fascism in all of us’–as uncomfortable as this might be, the greater danger lies in looking away.