In the first 65 years or so after the end of World War II, there were hardly any war movies about Hitler himself.

Fighting Germans and Nazis, yeah sure, lots.

And Hitler would appear sometimes briefly with spittle on his lapels,

but no one much ruminated on the Furer's death, real or imagined.

Folks weren't quite so into demystifying their heroes or their villains then.

All the death and ruin of World War II were noble and justified expenses,

if Hitler was an all-powerful superthug, less so if he's revealed as a fragile feeble

teapot atop a timid obsequious house of cards. Growing up in the 70s, Hitler was always portrayed in his prime at Nuremberg or in Paris,

still a worthy foe that only American ingenuity could counter.

These days we love demystifying things, including the idea that American saxophones defeated

Hitler. And gradually our attention has turned from gawking at Hitler at his most vigorous

to stalking him as he unravel.

Maybe there's a certain shot in Freuda,

to watching him trembling in an amphetamine-induced apoplexy

as his world comes crashing down,

but that is a paltry comfort.

No, I think it does us good simply to reflect on how commonplace he was, how basic.

To take away the whiff of supernatural talent,

the better to recognize that it could easily happen again.

But wait, if we demystify him and us, if American can-do-G-Wizism was really just a flanking maneuver.

And if Hitler was a hollow shell, how exactly did he orchestrate

8.5 million Russian soldiers ground to fertilizer on the eastern front?

...