The Social Network

The Best Social Media Villain Origin Story Ever

“Do I have your full attention?”

The Social Network calls to mind the famous Walt Disney quotation: “I only hope we never lose sight of one thing: it was all started by a mouse.” As an origin story of one of the most influential people and companies of the 21st century, this film is an important one. It was all started by a break-up. And as a social commentary, The Social Network is, to its great credit, as insightful as it is caustic.

And in that light, it would be a valuable addition to a fantasy Film Lit course—one that would feature films that spoke to and comment on the zeitgeists of successive decades in American history. (An incomplete list of the films in this hypothetical course would include Dr. Strangelove (1950s), The Graduate (1960s), All the President’s Men (1970s), Fargo and Do the Right Thing (1980s), and Clerks (1990s)). 

[Editor’s Note: readers of the Dr. Strangelove Film Lit Pitch might be thinking that what I’m envisioning is an updated and film-heavy extension of that legendary history class: United States History, 1945-Present. Yup. I am.]

And yet—you probably already saw this one coming—I have a hard time making the case that The Social Network would work well in a traditional Film Lit course. I know that many people consider this film a masterpiece. I do not. It does a lot of things very well. As it turns out, though, many of its excellent elements seem almost intentionally Film Lit-resistant. And, of course, it does have some very real flaws.

“Drop the ‘The.’ Just ‘Facebook.’ It’s cleaner.”

Let’s start by talking about the film’s strongest strengths.

I think Trent Reznor’s score is a triumph, one of the best of the 21st century. Melancholic and synthetic, it imbues the scenes with more humanity than our characters probably deserve. I can’t prove it, but I believe I would shake my head a lot less, and certainly feel a lot less, with a lesser score. The highlight of the score for me is the regatta scene, featuring Reznor’s take on “In the Hall of the Mountain King.”

And while I’m here, and even though it’s redundant, David Fincher is really good at using technique to forward an agenda. The regatta scene, to point to just one example, features several angle down shots, so that the massive Winklevoss twins look miniature. The agenda here is to remind the viewer that their priorities are skewed; they are overly focused on small things that won’t matter in the long run. What is one race, after all, next to a multi-billion-dollar company and immeasurable influence and fame? In addition, the sequence is primarily in slow motion. Traditionally, slow motion helps accentuate detail and add gravity. That dynamic applies here: we get to see the strain, the effort, up close, and appreciate it. And the slow motion has a concomitant effect: it reminds us that these two speed fanatics are moving way too slow, and are getting left behind not only by the other boat, but by Mark as well.

[Editor’s note: I’ll say: as I wrote that last paragraph, it did occur to me that there’s certainly a case to be made that this film could work well in a Visual Storytelling unit. (For the uninitiated: that unit focuses primarily on the ways technique reveals agenda. Previous and current Visual Storytelling films include: Fargo, The Shawshank Redemption, The Graduate, and Parasite.)]  

Andrew Garfield’s turn as Eduardo Saverin counts as another strength of the film. To the extent there’s anyone to root for, it’s Eduardo. And that’s in large part because of Garfield’s natural likeability and charisma. To be sure, I’m willing to believe that the real-life Eduardo wasn’t nearly as doe-eyed and genuine as the one we see here. But—and we’ll cover this point later, as well—I think it’s not unfair to say that without his humanity, the film would fall apart quickly.

[Sidebar: I consider this space safe, and therefore I’ll point out that Andrew Garfield is my favorite Spider-Man. The Peter Parker I grew up reading is quirky and funny and struggles with mundane things. And I think Garfield comes the closest to that one. He’s really good at being just a bit off sometimes, and also at delivering his one-liners effectively.]

As a foil to Eduardo, Justin Timberlake’s Sean Parker is a scene-theft, and a strength of the film. He, too, is charismatic. He’s also smarmy and deserves Eduardo’s distrust. I love how Timberlake—especially in the “Sean-a-thon”—delivers lines in a way that sounds rehearsed. We can see and hear that Mark is not the first person Sean has pitched himself to; he’s able to riff so easily in part because he’s working with recycled material. He’s a compelling character, because he, more so than the others, leads us to ask what his real motivations are in any given moment, whose side is he really on.

“Let the hacking begin.”

Here, alas, we must discuss my reservations with this film.

Let’s first grant that Aaron Sorkin is one of the most accomplished screenwriters ever. He is a much better screenwriter than I will ever be. And it’s also the case that I’ve watched the entire run of The West Wing more than once. I really like A Few Good Men. I like a lot of his work.

But. But.

There I was, showing The Social Network to a Film Lit class as an end-of-semester treat, a film to watch after we had finished our curriculum. And all of a sudden, I remembered something I heard from Lawrence Lessig, a professor who has worked at both Harvard Law School and Stanford Law School. Someone asked him about The Social Network. And he said, plainly, “Look. I’ve spent years listening to Harvard undergrads. Not one of them talks like that.”

In this film, somehow, everyone talks like “that.”

Readers of the Moneyball Film Lit Pitch will remember that I gave Sorkin credit for writing plausible, engaging, and diverse voices in that screenplay. What you might have missed was a helpful insight from the legendary Ryan Lee, who informed me in a comment that “[Steven] Zaillian probably deserves most of the credit for the script. Sorkin was the name, but it really does not feel like a Sorkin script at all (and I’m pretty sure Zaillain wrote the drafts both preceding and succeeding Sorkin).”

This film very much does feel like a “Sorkin script.” The characters all seem to share the same elegant, refined, sarcastic, lyrical voice. The dialogue is self-indulgent and relentlessly pitter-patter. And, as often happens in Sorkin’s work, conversations are duels—and that pattern takes the audience out of the world of the movie, and reminds us that we are watching a scripted story. (A big one for me: even Larry Summers, in his meeting with the twins, sounds like an insult comic.)

Moreover, the script smugly and self-referentially revels in its belief that its dialogue is brilliant and worth savoring. Watching it this time through, I couldn’t help but notice and get irritated by how many scenes ended with a Mark Zuckerberg zinger followed by his lawyer’s sighing in exasperation.

“I was just being polite, I have no intention of being friends with you.”

Another major concern with The Social Network’s Film Lit eligibility boils down to a simple question: whom do we root for? On my most recent viewings, I found myself actively disliking most of the characters. These are smart, ambitious people doing smart, ambitious things that are also awful.

The post-break-up Facebook genesis sequence, I think, presents this concern in clear relief. We’ve just been introduced to Mark, by virtue of some of the most aggressively unbelievable dialogue in the film. And from that opening scene, we know at least three things about Mark: he’s a jackass; he’s a grinder; and he considers himself a class warrior of sorts. He views a Final Club as a way to “a better life.”

And, I have to say: when I watch the scenes at the Phoenix party, I get both sad and angry, and I really do want to root for Mark. The party is elitists among the elites rejoicing in their super-elitism. These people could be making a real difference in the world—and, to be fair, who’s to say they don’t?—and instead they are concerned with letting everyone know that only the very richest and coolest are allowed in their most exclusive club. I get that this sort of stuff happens all the time, at all sorts of colleges; still, it makes me sick. It just seems like such a bad use of time and money and energy.

And then, soon enough, there’s the party’s misogynist turn. Before long, we see the young women degraded and objectified and presented as there only for the young men’s pleasure.

So, okay! I get what Mark is fighting against: spoiled rich misogynists. I’m ready to root for him.

And then he bases a whole enterprise on a notion that is at least plausibly equivalent in its misogyny. Great.

And then he spends the rest of the time we know being as mean as possible to as many people as possible. As the Winklevoss lawyer says, “Your best friend is suing you for 600 million dollars.” So now he’s unlikeable even apart from his misogyny. To be sure, there are occasional efforts to humanize him and present a more nuanced picture of him: his lawyer tells us that he objected to mentioning the chicken scandal; he tries to apologize to Erica, and wants to talk to her in private; he chides Sean for being “rough” with Eduardo. Famously, the story ends with him doing the most relatable thing he’s done all film: refreshing his friend request to Erica.

But to the extent the film works as a social commentary, I think it’s in presenting a class of people who symbolize a decade: amoral, reckless, and insubstantial. If that’s the goal, then there’s value in showing these characters as easily dislikeable. I’ll say: the text we see while Mark hits refresh, and while we hear “Baby, You’re a Rich Man,” really helps me walk away from the story not feeling too much for anyone involved. There is no evidence of accountability or resolution or emotional growth. And, I mean, as presented, there are no real losers: everyone—even and especially Eduardo—ends up rich! (I’ll say: I find his “lawyer up, a**hole” speech compelling and inspiring. That he settles after threatening to come “after all of it” is disappointing.)

And that’s why Marylin Delpy’s closing line is such a killer: “You’re not an a**hole, Mark. You’re just trying so hard to be.”

First of all, that line reads like something that is fun to write but difficult to imagine someone saying out loud. After all, what does it even mean? Second, the Mark we’ve been presented with does not deserve that apologist take as a walk-off line. Third, it minimizes the film’s primary social takeaway.

What I’m trying to say is that if the enterprise of this film is to inspire disdain toward and to show that our culture has given outsized influence to despicable people who don’t care about their friends, let alone anyone else, then that’s a bold, brave thing to do. It’s dispiriting, yes, but brave. And, to circle back to Film Lit for a second, brave and dispiriting films don’t always make for ideal Film Lit films. The last line’s effort to inspire sympathy for Mark isn’t enough to make it more acceptable as a traditional Film Lit film; but it is enough to make the film look a lot less brave.

“I was drunk, and angry, and stupid . . . and blogging.”

See you November 8th, when we discuss 1917 (2019).