Architecture and Fascism

Back in 1993, I spent four weeks in Rome, gathering inspiration for my thesis project. During my explorations, I photographed the Palazzo della Civiltà Italiana in the EUR district, originally constructed for the Esposizione Universale Roma—a massive business center and suburban development initiated by Benito Mussolini in 1935 for the planned 1942 World’s Fair, symbolizing the Fascist regime. The architecture and the EUR district itself have frequently been used in cinema to evoke visual oppression associated with Italian Fascism.

Palazzo della Civiltà Italiana.

Interestingly, during my visit, Disney held an exhibition there, and the building was adorned with Mickey Mouse banners. Even today, I find this juxtaposition incredibly intriguing and thought-provoking.

This moment, captured in a photograph, remains etched in my memory as a potent symbol of the complex relationship between architecture and politics. The Palazzo, often referred to as the “Square Colosseum,” is a prime example of how architectural form can be co-opted to project power, ideology, and national identity. Its symmetrical repetition, imposing scale, and stark modernism echo the authoritarian ideals of its origin.

But architecture, like history, does not remain static. As time passes, meanings shift. Seeing this monolithic symbol of Fascist ambition cloaked in colorful banners of Mickey Mouse—arguably the most recognizable icon of American consumerism and pop culture—was surreal. It transformed the building from a fascist emblem into something ironic, playful, and strangely democratized.

This unlikely pairing raised deeper questions for me:

Can architecture ever be neutral?

How do we reconcile the beauty of form with the burden of history?

And to what extent can new uses and narratives overwrite the ideological intent embedded in the bones of a place?

For designers, artists, and architects, the EUR district serves as a cautionary yet compelling case study. It challenges us to consider how buildings embody politics—not just in their design, but in how they are used, interpreted, and repurposed over time. Our interventions, even temporary ones, become part of that ongoing conversation.

In this way, the Mickey Mouse banners did more than promote an exhibition—they invited a reimagining. And perhaps, through such reimaginings, architecture can begin to untangle itself from the ideologies of its past.