The 1936 Berlin Olympics were not just a sporting event—they were a masterclass in political stagecraft that still shapes mega-events today. While previous Games celebrated athleticism, Berlin professionalised spectacle as a tool of statecraft, blending architecture, ritual, and media into a seamless narrative of national strength.

The torch relay, for instance, now synonymous with Olympic tradition, was co-opted from classical mythology and Nazi rallies to symbolise purity, power, and lineage. The uniformed parade of athletes, choreographed mass gatherings, and monumental design of venues—engineered by Albert Speer—were not random acts of grandeur. They were calculated, psychological interventions aimed at presenting Nazi Germany as modern, peaceful, and powerful, while masking the escalating oppression behind the scenes (Bachrach, 2000).

The power of this approach lay in its subtlety. As historian David Clay Large notes, Hitler avoided overt political hijacking of the Games, allowing the spectacle to speak for itself. Foreign media, global audiences, and even sceptics were drawn into the carefully curated image of Germany’s resurgence. The façade worked—the Games were hailed as a success, diplomatically and organisationally—setting a dangerous precedent that sporting events could be instruments of soft power and public diplomacy, dressed up as apolitical celebration (Large, 2007).

Fast forward nearly a century, and the DNA of Berlin 1936 is embedded in the architecture, rituals, and choreography of today’s mega-events. The hosts may differ—China, Russia, Qatar, even liberal democracies like UK and France—but the formula of spectacle-driven image management remains largely unchanged.

Take the 2008 Beijing Olympics. Beyond the athletic feats, China’s leadership delivered a tightly controlled narrative of national modernisation, unity, and global prominence. Lavish infrastructure, from the Bird’s Nest Stadium to the Water Cube, echoed Speer’s monumentalism, designed to awe foreign audiences and domestically cement national pride. The torch relay itself became a geopolitical theatre, triggering protests across global capitals but reinforcing the visual power of tradition.

Similarly, the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics and 2018 World Cup in Russia demonstrated how mega-events offer cover for reputational rehabilitation. Lavish ceremonies and infrastructure distracted from the realities of political repression, corruption, and—shortly after Sochi—the annexation of Crimea.

Even the controversial Qatar 2022 FIFA World Cup followed the pattern. Behind the futuristic stadiums designed by Albert Speer Jr. (son of Hitler’s architect) lay systemic labour abuses and human rights concerns, overshadowed by controlled narratives of cultural progress and innovation (Muratovski, 2025).

The lesson is clear: the Berlin model of spectacle, symbolism, and strategic distraction is alive and well.

It is convenient to believe that propaganda by spectacle is confined to authoritarian regimes. But the uncomfortable truth is that liberal democracies, too, have learned to manipulate mega-events to project curated images and sideline inconvenient truths.

The London 2012 Olympics were celebrated for their organisational excellence, inclusivity messaging, and sustainable legacy. Yet critics pointed to selective urban regeneration, social cleansing, and carefully orchestrated media narratives that concealed the displacement of vulnerable communities. Large-scale barriers were erected to hide deprived areas from view—echoing the literal and symbolic image control tactics seen in Berlin 1936.

Similarly, Paris 2024 markets itself as a Games of equality and diversity. But controversies around urban security, commercialisation, and marginalised groups' access to public space suggest a more complex reality behind the slogans.

This does not equate these hosts morally with Nazi Germany. But it illustrates how the architecture of spectacle—rituals, visuals, urban design—remains a powerful, seductive tool for all governments, regardless of ideology. The difference lies in how consciously, transparently, and ethically these tools are deployed.

The challenge for democratic hosts is not to reject spectacle—but to ensure it serves genuine public good, not just polished narratives for global consumption (Muratovski, 2011).

While governments and organisers meticulously script mega-events, history shows that individuals can—and often do—disrupt the façade. The 1936 Berlin Olympics were intended to showcase Aryan supremacy, yet it was Jesse Owens, a Black American athlete, who dominated the Games, winning four gold medals and dismantling both Nazi and American racial myths on the world stage (Bachrach, 2000).

Owens’ victory was a potent, if unintended, subversion of the propaganda machine. Despite the racist ideologies underpinning both Nazi Germany and segregation-era America, his athletic excellence cut through the spectacle, forcing the world to confront contradictions between the ideals projected by the Games and the social realities of the time.

This legacy continues. Colin Kaepernick's NFL protest, Megan Rapinoe’s outspoken activism, or the unified refugee teams at recent Olympics all demonstrate how athletes can reframe global sporting platforms, challenging injustice, discrimination, or hypocrisy (Britannica, 2025a, Britannica, 2025b).

Mega-events concentrate global attention—but they do not control it entirely. By using their visibility to amplify uncomfortable truths, athletes, activists, and civil society can resist attempts to sanitise or co-opt sporting spectacles.

The lesson is clear: the script can be disrupted—but only if individuals are willing to step beyond the spectacle.