At the beginning of the 20th century, the United States was still a nation reluctant to go to war, nourished by an isolationist ideology that viewed military intervention as a moral deviation. Yet in a matter of months, this spirit was entirely overturned. A remarkably well-oiled machine—state propaganda—pushed Americans into the arms of interventionism. Noam Chomsky, in Media Control, recounts how, thanks to the Creel Committee, a peaceful population was transformed into a frenzied crowd, ready to destroy anything German and “save the world through rhetoric.”
Behind this masterstroke of manipulation stands the figure of George Creel, a journalist from Missouri, a combative and progressive spirit, author of pamphlets in support of women’s suffrage and initially close to pacifist positions. His conversion to the interventionist gospel came in 1917, when he became the architect of American propaganda during the First World War. His strategy was not to censor information, but to filter facts so they would be interpreted as the government wished. He did not lie—he guided. In his How We Advertised America, he defends the use of facts as rhetorical levers, opposing them to opinions: a myth that still circulates in journalism today.
Creel founded the Committee on Public Information (CPI), a true ministry of propaganda, and implemented a sophisticated model based on self-censorship and appearances. He formally rejected censorship, but rendered it unnecessary through a system of internal and emotional control over journalists. With the Espionage Act of 1917—still in force and used to prosecute Julian Assange—press freedom was placed in check without the need for official suppression.
Another stroke of genius was the creation of the Division of Pictorial Publicity, the visual wing of propaganda, which recruited top illustrators and enlisted Hollywood. Cinema became an ideological trench. The effects were immediate: even in Mexico, where anti-American sentiment was strong, American war films managed to reverse popular attitudes. Boos turned into applause. Charlie Chaplin himself became a propaganda ambassador, as shown in Zepped (1916), which depicted a Zeppelin bombing of London.
Creel did not invent propaganda, but he institutionalized its democratic version. And his example was not lost: Joseph Goebbels and Adolf Hitler would later draw inspiration from the American model to build their own propaganda apparatus. From then on, every war would also be a war of narratives.
At the same time, another key figure emerged: Walter Lippmann. A member of the same committee, Lippmann was among the first to theorize the role of the stereotype in constructing social reality. His 1922 work Public Opinion is a foundational text for understanding modern media. His view was elitist: the public is a “bewildered herd” incapable of grasping the complexity of the world. Therefore, Lippmann argued, it is right for the few—the specialized class of experts, politicians, and journalists—to make decisions on behalf of the masses.
Propaganda thus becomes a legitimate mechanism for shaping public opinion, through images, symbols, and clichés. The stereotype simplifies complexity, guides perception, and replaces reflection with visual immediacy. That’s why photography, Lippmann observed, is crucial: those who visualize well, think well. But they are also more easily manipulated.
The logic that prevailed was one of symbolic management of emergencies. When quick action is needed, it’s better to steer the masses using icons, immediate stories, and slogans rather than rational debates. Democracy becomes a spectacle democracy, where voting is a ritual of endorsing decisions already made elsewhere.
This vision is further radicalized by Edward Bernays, Freud’s nephew and a pioneer of mass psychological manipulation. A Viennese émigré, Bernays applied psychoanalysis to public communication, turning it into a political and commercial tool. His campaigns were legendary: with Chesterfield ads, he convinced women to smoke, turning cigarettes into a symbol of female emancipation. He called them the “Torches of Freedom.”
In his 1928 book Propaganda, Bernays wrote that in a modern democracy, the conscious manipulation of public opinion is inevitable—and even moral. A dystopian vision masked as rationality. The invisible power of the few guides the many through symbolic and narrative devices. And if advertising can make you buy cigarettes, it can also legitimize war.
Bernays also deployed his talents on behalf of the CIA, helping in 1954 to overthrow Guatemala’s democratically elected president, Jacobo Árbenz. His crime? Challenging the interests of the United Fruit Company. Bernays orchestrated a campaign that turned the Central American leader into a dangerous communist, even though Guatemala had no diplomatic ties with the USSR. The red scare was fabricated to terrify a gullible American public, afraid that “commies” might come take their television sets and Ford sedans. His predictions proved accurate: he had anticipated the society of the spectacle. He understood that cinema was an unmatched tool for spreading ideas and opinions, a means to unify thought and behavior across a nation.
The legacy of these pioneers remains alive today. Media manipulation, stereotype-based narratives, and the spectacularization of politics have become structural elements of our democracies. No longer violent censorship, but systemic self-censorship. No longer truth, but plausible narratives. No longer real choice, but the illusion of choice. And those who control this machinery have no intention of giving up the reins.
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