How Democracy Dies: Mussolini: Son of the Century

Mussolini: Son of the Century (2025) is Director Joe Wright’s warning—his warning of the timelessness of fascism and how its playbook, though rebranded, continues to seduce and manipulate us. In an eight-part series, he traces the meteoric rise of Benito Mussolini (Luca Marinelli) from a fringe ex-socialist leading a ragtag gang to the Duce of Italy, drawing not-so-subtle parallels along the way; at one point, Mussolini smirks at the camera, saying, “Make Italy great again.” The series is a tale of how a pathetic, insecure, deeply flawed man hypnotized the people into buying into his persona and promises. 

Marinelli is absolutely brilliant in his role, transforming Mussolini from a historical villain to a grounded yet cinematic character. He preaches passionately, speaking in totalities. He even reaches audiences at home by breaking the fourth wall, introducing himself in a chilling monologue: “Follow me,” he grins. “You’ll become fascists too.” He is charismatic and charming. His early rhetoric—raving against elitism, inequality, the exploitation of the workers, the church, and the monarchy—enthralls viewers as he capitalizes on the same issues that remain pertinent today. There are moments where Marinelli appears larger than life, hiding his true intentions of dictatorial power behind a veneer of populism and razzle-dazzle. 

But fascism is theater here, full of bluster and drama. Behind the curtain, Mussolini is a talentless, insecure brute preaching principles but lacking any integrity. He has a pretentious obsession with the violin, an instrument he plays with the aptitude of a five-year-old, yet he feels incredible pride from the cheers of sycophants. He even cheats to beat his poor little daughter in a fencing match. His socialist rival, Giacomo Matteotti (Gaetano Bruno), infuriates him because he is a man who is true to his principles and loves his family, all things Mussolini is not. He cheats on his wife and ultimately betrays his beloved working class for the “bourgeois parasites” he once denounced, sending squads to brutalize protesting workers for money and votes. 

Wright devotes considerable attention to Mussolini’s romantic entanglement with Margherita Sarfatti (Barbara Chichiarelli), his muse, confidante, and true lover. Her presence illuminates his most insecure moments, rambling endlessly about his betrayal of principles. Sarfatti is everything Mussolini is not: confident, intelligent, and self-assured. Wright also depicts Mussolini’s moral downfall through his increased abusiveness; he neglects and mistreats his wife, secretary, and later even Sarfatti as his need for control and dominance bleeds over into his domestic life. Mussolini is practically a satirization of politicians who preach family values while being horrific womanizers and abusers—a common historical trend amongst dictators and the far-right. 

The series defines fascism in its fluidity, as Mussolini and fascism evolve together. It’s a fluctuating jumble of definitions and contradictions that ultimately serve one end: power. This fickleness can be seen in Mussolini’s rants: “The will of the few imposed on the will of many, its oppression, its free will, the law of the strongest, hatred, mass excitement, anger, contempt for weakness, always being against something or someone.” It’s a definition filled with contradiction, and it is unnervingly familiar to today’s political rhetoric. 

Violence is ever-present in Mussolini’s paramilitary goons, the “Blackshirts.” They constantly assault socialists in brutal scenes as they sing gleefully, underpinned by a screechy, techno soundtrack belonging to a cyberpunk film. A father is sadistically killed in front of his family, brutal assassinations are carried out, and castor oil is poured down a man’s throat; his fascists appear like they are straight out of the mafia. Mussolini seems rather detached from the violence, smirking when Matteotti denounces his party for massacring a family, then insisting the violence is “chivalrous.” 

Ironically, some far-right commentators have praised the show’s portrayal of the Blackshirts, in admiration of their violence. Others, paradoxically, criticized it for being too harsh on Mussolini, calling it ad hominem or politically biased. This bizarre contradiction underscores Wright’s thesis: fascism can distort perception, and its appeal still lingers. Fittingly, the show faced difficulty finding a U.S. distributor, despite being praised by executives. Wright was told it was too controversial—ironically similar to what newspapers would’ve said about anti-fascist articles during the show’s period.

The cinematography is the most stunning aspect of this piece. Wright trades realism for a more surrealist creative bonanza. Sequences are often executed in grainy, black-and-white film to mimic fascist film reels. He creates a fantastic depiction of postwar Milan, all done on a set that is filled with decaying buildings, disgruntled veterans, and filth, and the Gothic Duomo Di Milano cathedral standing in the background. Italy is in ruins and ripe for a dictator. The camera uncomfortably lingers on faces, catching the twitch of a mouth betraying Mussolini’s weakness. The show features sequences that flicker frantically between images of violence, Mussolini, and bizarre intrusions like a pencil sharpener or a spinning grenade, certainly putting viewers on edge.

The show is largely historically accurate, but Wright takes some creative liberties. Sarfatti’s influence as the impetus for fascist ideas is perhaps overstated (although true to some extent). The banter between Mussolini and Cesare Rossi (Francesco Russo), while riveting, is mostly fictitious. These choices don’t detract from the historical narrative, but they do make the show more captivating. 

The only noticeable area in which the series stumbles is in its pacing. Episodes often feel oversaturated with endless streams of violence, sexual vulgarity, and Mussolini’s constant tirades and speeches. This is partially intentional; Wright immerses us in the normalization of violence when the socialists getting burned to death and politicians being killed is just another day, as that’s what it was to an Italian. 

Fascism is not a relic. Rather, it is a chameleon: it molds itself onto whatever gives it power. Mussolini: Son of the Century portrays a pathetically magnetic man and the force of his populist rhetoric. In a world leaning toward authoritarianism, Wright poses a question: “How much longer will pathetic, immoral men dictate our lives?” In the final scene of the show, Mussolini offers Parliament the chance to remove him for killing his political rival. Silenzio. Freedom dies not with spectacle but in an uncomfortable silence of the people.