There’s a particular moment in X Company that stayed with me. It’s when Faber, the morally ambiguous Nazi officer who has been an antagonist from day one, breaks down. He weeps, not theatrically, but in quiet, private devastation. It’s clearly meant to make me feel something in that moment, empathy, maybe, or relief. But my immediate reaction was discomfort, followed quickly by suspicion. Should I feel anything at all?
This moment isn’t unique. World War II dramas, especially recent ones, frequently portray villains who are morally complex enough to make me question my instinctive horror. But why do filmmakers crave redemption, even when they risk softening or erasing historical atrocities?
Historically speaking, some Nazis did indeed defect or express remorse. But these stories were rare, and the real-life complexities of guilt, culpability, and moral courage were messy. Defection was often driven as much by self-preservation as morality. Yet on screen, characters like Faber are often portrayed with emotional weight designed to comfort the viewer. Don’t worry, Nazis can regret and repent (and ultimately be forgiven?).
And here’s where I get sceptical: by giving Nazis redemption arcs, are we letting ourselves off the hook? When I see a character like Faber weeping, it feels like permission to say, “At least he feels bad.”
X Company isn’t alone in this. Movies often portray these men as “complicated” and then turn them into emotionally accessible, even sympathetic people that we almost want to root for. Like they are a victim of their circumstances. So I have to keep asking: does this narrative choice risk diluting history’s harsh evils? At the same time, I don’t want caricatures of Nazis either.
Maybe the answer is not to deny a villain’s humanity. Faber can be evil and still human. But it is crucial that we condemn the evil far more strongly and unequivocally than we acknowledge their humanity. Recognising someone’s humanity doesn’t mean forgiving them or redeeming their actions. It just means accepting the uncomfortable complexity that evil can coexist alongside very human sentiments. And also that being human means we can be more than just one thing. More than just evil. Still, it’s uncomfortable as hell.
As a viewer and a reviewer, this discomfort matters. It matters because it forces us to question why we’re drawn to redemptive narratives about Nazis at all. Are we genuinely learning something nuanced about human nature, or are we trying to avoid the horrors that are difficult to face?
Perhaps, when Faber cries, I shouldn’t feel relief, empathy, or anything easy. Perhaps instead, I should simply feel conflicted and let that uncertainty sit uncomfortably and unresolved.
