Why “The Social Network” is truly the reflection of today’s society

Everybody loves The Social Network, and that is the first sign that there is something wrong going on with this film. Filmmaker David Fincher (Alien 3, Seven), with a script by Aaron Sorkin, fictionalized, packed and sold the story of how the social network site Facebook came into being and after a few months showing at the theatres, the movie has gained unanimous praise. However, this is not a flawless film. No sir. It is actually very simple-minded and insipid. In the next few paragraphs I’ll explain why. Just a quick note: I’ll avoid a synopsis of the story, as anyone who might come upon this text will have undoubtedly seen the movie, or at least heard about it enough to know the gist of it; I will only do some exposition when an argument requires it. So, as Morpheous says when he comes out of the elevator in Matrix 2: Here we go.

The first thing I’ll remark upon is the characters. Oh boy, where to begin? Well of course, Mark Zuckerberg. Billionaire Zuckerberg played by Jesse Eisenberg. He’s a good actor (anyone accepted into NYU’s Tisch school of arts is quite good, if not ask James Franco). However, the first thing I learned from his performance is that he can talk really fast, really fucking fast, perhaps rapper-fast, and that’s saying a lot. He can utter like five long complicated sentences in five seconds with perfect diction. That’s admirable. Right. So he’s not spectacular as some have pointed out, but he still manages to convey the little nuances of the character: we don’t see Jesse Eisenberg, we see Mark Suckerberg. Still, the reason he’s not spectacular is one which is not his fault; it’s the screenwriter’s, but I’ll come back to that later.

Now, Zuckerberg, as portrayed in this film, is a son of a bitch, or as they put it in the film, an asshole. Let me tell you why: he’s a fucker with his ex-girlfriend (he writes a messed up, though admittedly funny, blog entry about her); he constantly downplays his best friend’s achievements; he becomes the pet of Napster-founder Sean Parker (Justin Timberlake); he steals and mocks the good-mannered Winklevoss brothers; and, in the end, betrays Eduardo so to leave him with only 0.03% of the company (at the start he had 30%). So, he’s truly a very poisonous human being. But the really scary thing about this character (So, I’m talking about Zuckerberg as in the film, not the actual Mark Zuckerberg who might actually be a decent human being) is that the people to whom he does all these mean things don’t really do much to deserve such punishment. For instance, let’s discuss the (ex) girlfriend, Erica Albright. She’s nice to him. All she does is try to communicate with obsessed-with-Final-Clubs Zuckerberg. She asks simple questions and all she gets in return is a pissed off Zuckerberg who then goes on to downgrade Erica’s university. In that scene, the first five minutes of the film, we get the whole Zuckerberg persona. We get that he’s obsessed with Final Clubs; we get that he’s a mean motherfucker with girls; we get that he gets really angry at innocent remarks; we get that he can talk really fucking fast; we get that he’s insecure beyond belief: and, of course, we get that he’s a nerd and an extremely skilled “computer person.”

The second character: Eduardo Savarin. He’s the most decent person in the whole story, and he also talks extremely fast. He’s considerate with Mark (right after Mark breaks up with Erica, at 2am, Eduardo goes to Mark’s dorm to comfort him) and gives him 19,000 to start up Facebook. The only mishap he ever makes is freezing the account he had set up for Facebook after being severely neglected by his partner. Well, and I guess it also counts that throughout the film we see him being really stupid and not getting the point of what Facebook is all about. What does he get in return? Zuckerberg decides then to bump his ass out of the company. My God, I wish I had such a good pal.

The third, and last of the major characters: Sean Parker. The Napster creator, college-girl humper, and drug addict gets to be played by former Britney Spears boyfriend and former ‘Nsync pop-idol Justin Timberlake. He’s also a son of a bitch who wants to take Eduardo’s place as Zuckerberg’s right hand. He also talks very fast.

Here’s the first problem I have with the film: these characters are all sons of bitches. Now, I don’t necessarily dislike films whose characters are all assholes; actually I prefer that kind of characters. But if you’re going to have assholes, your movie better have a point. Anything will do, even if it’s just that everybody is an asshole and that’s it. This movie has no point! It’s just a story, it’s not a tragedy, it’s not a comedy, it’s not a documentary, there’s no argument about it. It’s just a bunch of people doing really poisonous things to each other. Zuckerberg doesn’t commit suicide at the end; Eduardo only gets a relatively small compensation; Erica doesn’t forgive him and no one acts as a moral figure in the entire film (not that there must be one, I’m just saying…). There’s no sign of redemption (Zuckerberg, in the end, actually says “I’m not a bad guy” – I laughed so hard when he said that). So basically, if you asked me what The Social Network is about I would be obliged to tell you: about mean people who are just mean because that’s how they are. There are no themes, there are no messages – we just get a (incomplete) picture of a bunch of people. It isn’t even a depiction of reality. We can’t say that the point of the film is that everybody is deep down evil. No. Only these guys. And it’s not a depiction of, say, reality, because that’s not how these people are in reality, as they have themselves said in many interviews. Dammit movie, give me something! If you’re going to fictionalize the story, at least make it have some sense.

Now, the second problem I have with the movie is its script. Many critics have said that it’s a great screenplay because it allowed a story that seemed otherwise untellable, to be told. Yeah, I give it that, even though they fictionalized the story, but other than that, there isn’t much wit in its creation. There are several problems with it. Firstly, it’s too damn long; so long that Fincher had to tell his actors to speak as fast as they could so to reduce the length of the film. Now, being long isn’t too bad if it weren’t that it made the director take such an unfortunate decision. The fact that the actors talk as fast as they talk, even though it gives the scenes a very provocative pace, rather makes them more confusing and enervating. At times it seems that we’re looking at a Girlmore Girls’ episode (I would really like to slap those girls, bitch slap them into silence). Secondly, it seems Fincher, and movie critics for that matter, haven’t realized that lines that are spoken rapidly and that share at least the minimum amount of coherence with each other don’t mean that they are good. I don’t remember a single line that I could quote and say to myself: this is some good writing. The characters talk as intelligent, amazingly eloquent, emotionally-numb people would talk. But they don’t talk as characters in an intelligent, amazingly eloquent film would talk. Characters, remember, are just elements of a film; and a film is meant to be more than just a representation of reality (this is the task of documentaries).

In art, the signified always must transcend the field of signifiers. The dialogues of a good film must serve for two purposes, to move the narrative forwards and also provide a meaning. And this is where the screenplay of The Social Network falls down. Not one of their many, many, MANY, lines is quotable in this sense (see for yourself: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1285016/quotes). Yeah, they are alright, they make the film a comfortable experience and it makes it seem that we’re listening to very bright people. Yet not one of the dialogues gives one the semblance that the director is trying to say something with them. They are all very innocent and straightforward. (For an example of fertile dialogue see the Coen Brother’s films, every one of them.)

The third problem I have with the film is its sheer existence. Why on Earth do we need a film like this? Ok, we like to see smart people fighting each other apparently. But has it any significance? It’s just the story about three people, two of them being complete assholes and the other being quite retarded. You know what it would’ve been more interesting? To actually see the film exploring the impact Facebook has on society! You don’t show us anything of the sort, movie! You just sit around, with your nice photography, narrating to us the minutia of the creation of a product (the fake minutia), rather than the implications the product has on people and the nuances of society. Because, being honest, who gives a shit about Mark Zuckerberg really? Just a Harvard kid who had a good idea and then went on to become a billionaire – unless he ends up committing suicide in the next few years and we then see “The Social Network 2: Fucked in the brain” there’s really nothing interesting about it. What would be interesting is to see a story interweaving Facebook’s rise to power with a good ol-fashioned drama or comedy or whatever, and see how Facebook’s existence has changed the way people interact with each other – or even more, see how Facebook has changed and informed language.

The movie is all right. But that’s about it. The real problem with this film is that it’s dangerous because of what it means. The movie has been nominated to almost every award a film could be nominated, and has been praised by everyone. The danger with this movie is that it’s pure leisure. There’s no ambition in this film, none whatsoever beyond telling a mildly-interesting story. The director doesn’t try to create something new and transgressing with it. The photography is good but standard, there’s nothing interesting about it. What I’m trying to say is: this is entertainment, in the most strict and horrible sense of the word. It’s an activity that is diverting and that holds the attention. It’s more or less like drinking a lot of alcohol, without the possibility of waking up next to a girl in the morning. Or being stoned. It’s just something that holds out your consciousness so that you can be amused, the way babies are amused with a bunch of keys being rattled in front of their eyes. There are no sharp ends to The Social Network; there’s nothing in the story that has the power to affect you in any way. Yes, you could develop an interest in programming after watching it, but still you will go on thinking the same way and acting in the same way, and believing the same things you have believed all your life.

Think, on the other hand, of True Grit, or Toy Story 3. Think about the impossibly vast, starry nights of the western skies, or the unsettling image of watching toys about to be incinerated. There’s something in the scenes of those two films (to name a few) that catch our attention and point towards something else, towards a transcendent meaning behind it all. And even if we can’t find one, we have that feeling: the sense that the elements projected upon the screen aren’t just stuff – there’s something different, something completely out of place, something quite out there, that allow us to become active, rather than passive.

That’s the main problem with “The Social Network,” it’s such a passive film. You don’t have to do anything, ANYTHING. You just have to sit there, listen (closely), eat your popcorn, drink some soda, then walk away and repeat the same retarded comments that you think sound so clever: “wow, that movie really had some good dialogues”, “wow, that mark suckerberg eh, he really made it”, “wow, that photography is really cool!”, “wow, that Justin Timberlake is so fucking cute!” (the last one being by far the more interesting one).

Finally we arrive to why this movie is truly the reflection of today’s society. We live in a society that is scared of making an effort. We don’t want hard jigsaw puzzles that test our power of abstraction – we want the rattling keys. That’s the message behind this film, and that’s the message the people, and critics, by liking this movie so much, send everyone: that’s it’s alright to make a film that contributes nothing to the film industry besides fast talking.

But well, the good thing is that we just have to watch it, only two hours of our life spent on this movie are not wasted hours – but Fincher had to direct it, and Sorkin had to write it, and the producers had to produce it, the actors act it, they spent about a year of their lives doing this. Damn.

Toy Story 3 (Or Why Toy Story 3 Can Make You Cry)

There are many truly wonderful things about Pixar’s new jewel Toy Story 3 such as the script, the animation, the music or the fact that a totoro makes a cameo appearance (OMG that was so cool!). However, since in my last posts I have been all about rambling on about so many things that in the end nothing really sticks, I’ve decided to write a short (or rather a “short”) piece on why this film can make even the most macho man cry.

Let’s begin with the themes. There are many, but the ones that struck me as the most important ones were three: loneliness, purpose and death. Let me begin with loneliness. The first scene in Toy Story 3 is a flashback to Andy’s imaginations concerning the adventures of Woody and Buzz when he was a kid. After this, the film cuts to Woody and the band’s attempt to get Andy’s attention, now a 17-year old teenager about to go to college. The toys try to get Andy to play again with them by stealing his phone, hiding it with them in a chest and calling him with the hope that when he finds his cell-phone he’ll play with them once again. However, Andy doesn’t care about the toys anymore and when Woody calls the phone Andy ignores them and just picks up his phone. Here’s the interesting bit: when Andy answers the phone, nobody answers (obviously, as the toys were the ones that were calling him!). Nobody answers him from the chest of his toys, of the chest where his passion as a kid lies hidden. There’s a sense of loneliness; of being lonely from oneself that’s very powerful. Has that never happened to you? That you remember how you were years ago or how you interacted with the world when you were younger? That’s what they mean by loneliness.

Now, I say one of the themes is purpose because the whole point of the film is about finding the toy’s some purpose. Woody and the other toys represent Andy’s world as a kid, and so finding the toys’ purpose in life after they’re no longer needed is like trying to find a purpose to one’s own past. All those experiences of when you were younger, all those things you lived and feared and cried about… what good are they now, years later? That’s a very strange and powerful question. When we doubt our purpose in life we risk everything. You have to put your soul at hazard. You have to say, “Ok, I’ll be part of this world.” This is strangely confusing for a film “for kids.” The thing about purpose is that purpose is the only thing that moves us, that drives us, and when we lose that and we’re still there, we feel like we’re standing in a limbo, neither dead nor alive.

Finally, I say death because the characters in this film face death so many times that it becomes ridiculous. For instance, the garbage scene at the beginning, or the crazy-ass-toy-destroying kids’ scene, or the incinerator scene; there’s always the feeling that something might go wrong and they all might die. Even at the start of the film they say that they’ve lost many toys including Woody’s girlfriend. This gives us reason to believe that death is not something quite far-fetched in Toy Story 3’s world.

Having said this, now I want to address the issue of crying about all this. Yes the film is perfectly made, all the themes are ingeniously interwoven and the dialogues are amazing, and there are many heartwarming moments. However, the most shocking thing about Toy Story 3 is that the film is filled with cathartic moments. What I mean by “cathartic moment” is that there’s some point where the characters suddenly become emotionally purged, so that the emotional tensions that were in conflict inside them, suddenly *click* and are set free, leaving a sense of intense happiness and euphoria behind. A clear example of this is the part when Buzz loses his memories but still falls in love with Jessie right after that. Buzz’s transformation is symbolic of his falling in love with Jessie. Also, we got Andy who’s clearly distressed about his toys and what he’s going to do with them, and at the end of the film he gives them to a little girl, and plays one last time with them. All the emotional tensions that he had are suddenly purged and replaced with a feeling of contempt. And finally, we have Woody’s catharsis, probably the most important one. Woody relinquishes his purpose in life. His whole life revolved around Andy’s attention and in the end he forfeits that. He has the opportunity to go with Andy and remain his toy; however he chooses not to, he chooses to stay with his friends, to stay with all the other toys. Now, THAT’s catharsis. Imagine leaving your one true love because you know that she (or he)’s not in love with you anymore. Imagine doing so having the opportunity to go with her. Woody is starting from scratch, and that’s the most wonderful thing of this film in my opinion, that it teaches us that one can lose everything, everything that gave purpose to our lives, and still be able to purge ourselves anew and be content with the world.

That’s the reason one may cry with this film. Not because it’s sad, not because it brings back memories, but because Toy Story 3 contains so many cathartic moments that it’s overwhelming. And in the end, when Buzz and Jessie dance together, with the theme song playing in the background, I just couldn’t help thinking about how great it is that a “kid’s” film has in its core a theme as important as growing up. And not growing up as in all the other “coming of age” crap films, but in the more important, more transcendent sense of purging oneself of our own emotional tensions. Just think about the first time you kissed somebody else, just think about what kind of person you were after that (that night, when you were thinking about every second of that moment) compared to how you were before. That’s powerful. So, think about that when you see Toy Story 3. There’s so much talent in this movie that is amazing. Congratulations.

Wes Anderson’s Films

(A friend recommended his films, I saw 4 of them and these are my thoughts.) (Sorry for grammar or spelling mistakes – I didn’t proofread this post)

There’s something quite unique about Wes Anderson’s films: a total lack of cynicism. I have to be honest and say that it took some time for me to appreciate his films. At first sight I found them quite pretentious and blunt. However, after thinking about his films, I thought otherwise (who the hell said that in order to enjoy something you don’t have to think too much?!). They are quite moving and even humorous at times. It is true that there is a nagging, amateurish feeling of “coming of age” feeling in many of his films (particularly in Rushmore), but I don’t think that this is something bad, nor that this is the main purpose of his stories. I think his films are about two things: relationships and death. Yeah, yeah… some may think: “Relationships? Really? That’s your massive synthesis?! Well, even I thought of that!” but let me first explain what I mean by this. The meaning of “relationship” is not bounded to a human to human interaction. I am referring to the connection between someone and his/her/its environment. This “someone” can be thought of as one of the characters, or as an abstract entity personified by one or many individuals in the film. These relationships (Zissou and the sea – or what the “sea” represents –, Royal and his family, the brothers and the Darjeeling ltd…) are what drives the films.

Essentially it’s a matter of identity; we are creatures bounded by causality, and as such, we are inexorably the sons of our context (cultural and physical). Max Fisher is the son of Rushmore; Zissou is the son of the sea. One of Anderson’s great achievements is to make these connections between the main characters and its environment immensely complex (In most of his films there is an ensemble cast: there is no main character). This is what makes his films somehow unique. Granted that sometimes these relationships may come out as blunt or corny or even shallow, but that is also part of the nature of the relationships. The bluntness or corniness is not a consequence of bad filmmaking; it is something intrinsic to the film. And this is what allows them to dodge the critics’ misplaced attacks: they are sincere.

Now, I also mentioned death. Death is important; it’s the only constant in life. If life were a big narrative, undoubtedly death would be its main character. But what’s so important about death in Anderson’s films? Well, there is the obvious observation that in all his films someone dies. Then there is the less obvious but nonetheless straighforward idea that many characters die and are reborn. They undergo a catharsis (I want to stay as far away as possible from the “coming of age” label, it makes me sick). But there’s a third perspective: in all his films, there is the omnipresent idea of total emptiness. There is the idea that all this is going to end. Yes, characters may evolve and relationships may collapse and be rebuilt, but it is inevitable that everything will, in the end, vanish.

This is a more mature way of looking at things, but a more frightening one. In Zissou there’s always the feeling that at some point the ship might sink (all the electric failures constantly remind us of that fact); in Mr. Fox there’s the feeling that the humans might actually kill the animals; even in Tanenbaums there’s the feeling that at some point they might all feel like going their separate ways. All the relationships, all the sense of adventure seems to hang by a thread. And there is nothing underneath it all, there is no safety net, there’s just a darkened void. What if Mr. Fox actually died in the end? What if Zissou failed to see the jaguar shark? These are all latent possibilities in the logic of the films (contrary to many other Hollywood movies where we know the pretty boy is going to end up with the pretty girl and the black guy is going to be the most successful, and the Asian is going to be the smartest one, and by some mysterious reason, everybody is just mind-numbingly handsome). This sense of doom embeds the stories with a sharpness that is quite admirable.

Anderson might not be a virtuoso like Lynch or the Coens in terms of shot selection. He might not be as cool as Tarantino or as intellectual as Haneke or many of the Japanese. However, he represents something of our collective psychology: the desire for “moments of friendship/love” even if these hang by a thread. It’s the rejection of cynicism that makes his films quite enjoyable. Nothing in his films could ever happen. Zissou could never exist, nor Fisher nor the Tanenbaums, but that is the great thing about them… the films are not supposed to be social commentaries, they are meant to represent a certain ideology, a philosophy towards life (please, please! Don’t interpret this as “carpe diem” or “if you believe in yourself you can accomplish anything!” it has nothing to do with that). They are about prioritizing the moments in your life in which you are closer to someone or something not in physical terms but culturally. They represent a state of being where your passions are the passions of the person right next to you, and this is a very encouraging thought. There is something touching and wonderful in the idea that in a post-postmodernist world there is still the chance of making real contact with someone, beyond the mask of coolness or hipness (“How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!”). Those “moments of love/friendship”, like when Chas’ son comes down from the upper bed to sleep next to his dad, or when Mr. Fox randomly decides to dance. These are the keys of his films, the moments when Anderson connects us with a feeling of curiosity, love, friendship, ecstasy… where the norm is art, and not an idea (“A poem is no place for an idea”).

Besides, he seems to love the films he directs. What do we gain by telling him “your films are bad”? The only sensible question is: How can I make the experience of watching these films more substantial? And if you try to answer this question instead of the more common, and infantile one “How is this film similar/different to my idea of a “good film”?” then you’ll enjoy Anderson’s films like a koala bear enjoys having a good nap on his favourite tree.