'The Social Network' review

One of the most eagerly anticipated and talked-about films of the year alongside ‘Inception’, David Fincher’s ‘The Social Network’ more than lives up to the heavy expectation it’s been weighted with.

Unless you’ve been living in seclusion the last few weeks you’ll already be aware that the premise of this docu-drama is centred on the prodigal computer hacker Mark Zuckerberg who essentially creates Facebook in one drunken night and, upon unleashing it on the world, becomes embroiled in a number of legal battles over his billionaire fortune and the website copyright.

The film glides along at the trademark frenetic pace that made Fincher’s earlier work – ‘Seven’, ‘Fight Club’ – so entertaining. It has the same sharp sense of character and punchy dialogue (credit to a fantastic script by Aaron Sorkin whose recent writing credits include ‘The West Wing’) that ensures the film never stalls or feels like it’s treading water amidst the subject matter, which, taken at face value, had plenty of potential to be slow and un-involved. Credit should also be given to the highly nuanced and feverish electronic score by Atticus Ross and Trent Reznor (of Nine Inch Nails fame) that wonderfully streamlines the whole film.

It is perhaps the first film in which the central focal point is the internet itself, and the leading role taken by the intangible entity that is, of course, ‘Facebook’. The narrative swirls around this transient cyber-character at such a rate that it truly captures the surreal impression of this monster breaking free from the human characters who struggle to keep up with their creation as it ascends into the stratosphere from the confines of their Harvard dorm.

The film is brave in the way that it never seems to pander to the mass audience to which it’s been marketed; it requires the viewer to really engage in order to fully appreciate the unfolding story. For this reason I don’t think it’s anywhere near as watchable as ‘Fight Club’, nor as dark and engaging as ‘Seven’, but is ultimately a far more intelligent and important movie; brave in its depiction of Zuckerberg and the majority of the characters as essentially quite unlikeable people, thanks to brilliant performances from both Jesse Eisenberg as Zuckerberg and Andrew Garfield as his former best friend Eduardo Savarin. Even Justin Timberlake puts in an impressive turn playing Scott Parker, the charismatic founder of Napster.

The moral underbelly of the film is particularly discernable, in that it recognises that whilst the Facebook phenomenon has transformed 21st century networking and communication for better or worse, it also threatens to impinge upon actual human engagement and true relationships. This is reflected in the thought-provoking final scene that leaves Zuckerberg languishing as the youngest billionaire in the world but lacking the bravery to add as a friend the girl who dumped him back in Harvard. I believe that in 20 or 30 years ‘The Social Network’ will rightfully be held in high regard as one of the defining films of this generation and as a work of great social significance.

Notes

Notes on a loss of control:

Only one fell-swoop needed to push you to the brink, to shred nerve-endings and decimate personal stability. From clear crystal ripples to a storm of unpredictable tides, that leave you stranded on an island with no discernable direction in which to swim. Unlock the bars to your cage of inhibitions, send your fury and prejudice marching down the hall.

Out on a street, the kerbs illuminated at intervals by lamp light, you come face to face with an altogether more reserved individual on his way home from meeting a friend for a quiet drink; he is bookish and self-contained, a consumer of glossy newspaper supplements and documentaries on a culture of which he harbours contributory aspirations. You will be forgiven should you abandon your elementary grasp on claustrophobic control, and exact savage repudiation for reasons better left unknown. Reasons are worthless when honing the basic art of aggression, for nothing is solved on the apex point of knowing why.

Notes on a lack of belief:

You are held hostage in a prison of nerves, where jailers jangle infallibilities before your eyes. Not half as important as you’d like, nowhere near as popular as you imagine you ought to be. We’re at war with the idea of oneself, battle-lines marked in the sands of the mind, divisions drawn and then amended as the passing of the years work to deaden the fight.

Notes on an infringement of choice:

Why allow yourself ambition when forever being coerced into accepting a VIP pass to a non-too-prestigious exhibition of what you will eventually become? Working yourself to the rhythmic drum of underlying heart attacks, chasing a quick buck like a greyhound to a racetrack rabbit, drinking far more than necessary to make up for previously-established lack of belief.

Scaling the barbed-wire fence in deference to roving searchlights, in pursuit of the perfect body, perfect soul-mate, perfect kids, perfect cloistered existence, perfect sex all of the time, early retirement and a flashing green EXIT sign when it’s time to leave the show, inevitably devoid of any ringing applause.

The 9/11 Terrorist Attacks used as Structural Accompaniment to a Mental Breakdown

“...on the cusp of something really riveting here, I really do. Don’t you think so?”

I snap out of my reverie on the leather sofa and revert my attention back to Dr. Hammond who is pacing excited as usual in front of the window. The bright glare from the milk-white sky is casting a pallid aura across his sharp suit and face. I feel the strange sensation one has upon flinching back into focus from a daydream, not entirely sure how long the doctor has been carrying on his incessant spiel for, and already I’m mourning the banishment of that ambient placental daze that so cleverly sneaks up on oneself.

“I guess so, yes” I mutter, keen not to lose face with the doctor by displaying my all-too-obvious inattention. In any case he is far too absorbed in his own thoughts and theories to notice. He has, over the past few weeks, developed a curious habit of pacing behind his desk whilst talking and brandishing a vintage fountain pen which he thrusts forward like a dagger when hitting upon what he believes to be a point of some substance.

The result of this involuntary action is that ink tends to fly from the nib to erratically redecorate his previously plush cream carpet; almost as if he were subconsciously painting his own piece of abstract art across the canvas of his floor and occasionally the white walls, using psychoanalytical theories as his font of inspiration.

“Just think Robert, we could finally be on the verge of nailing down all the surrounding dogma, expelling the cynicism of outsiders, and compounding our ideas into that simple architectural formula which has alluded me for so long” he continues, and the pen flicks between his fingers some more in the same way that an excited puppy wags its tail. He pauses at his desk for a moment with a far-away, slightly crazed glint shrouding his eyes.

I wouldn’t mind so much that he proceeds each session with a hyperbolic rant bursting with high-minded theories cluttered with medical jargon, except that as my psychiatrist I would expect him to listen to me ramble on for an afternoon each week, when in actual fact I am being subjected to this role reversal.

The first few sessions had been fine, nothing out of the ordinary, but gradually Dr. Hammond seemed to become more animated and domineering of the conversation, steering the subject matter away from my issues and onto wild psychological theories relating to the destruction of buildings, becoming ever more frenzied as the time wore on. He had even begun trying to appoint me multiple weekly slots to which I had had to protest even though the hurt in the doctor’s face was clearly visible.

It was when he started setting up several large computer monitors around his office to stream viral content from the internet continuously throughout the sessions that I expressed my discomfort at the situation, but he had assured me that this was normal practise and that with my help he could unravel a new psychoanalytical doctrine that he was convinced lay at the root of my personal problems.

It was the content of the viral streaming that initially alarmed me somewhat – he would select footage of the 9/11 World Trade Centre atrocity to play on a constant loop. These would variously be news reports of multi-national origins, post-event documentaries, and personal eye-witness footage from those in the city at the time. This stream of resonant images and distressing pictures would serve as a backdrop to Dr. Hammond’s ranting, whilst now and then he would frantically rip medical journals and professional textbooks from shelves in order to clarify a technical point he was making, pause one of the videos in order to emphasise something, or turn the volume up from mute in order to let the screams and sounds of shock and awe permeate the surgery.

Whilst initially disturbed and confused by what relevance this had to me and my own problems, I began to find the scenes of death and destruction on such a grand scale oddly soothing; as if they held some sort of calming agent, until the point now where they barely register on me at all. Seeking perhaps to wrest some catharsis from these unorthodox methods I have acquiesced with Dr. Hammond’s madcap ravings all the same.

“Never before has a psychological theory been developed that points to the correlation between an absolute mental breakdown and the destruction of buildings” the doctor says, flicking the pen and positively frothing at the lips in growing derangement. I glance at the screen nearest to me in time to see slow motion pedestrian footage capture in shaky hand-held detail the second plane swoop low like a hawk over the concrete canopy before being swallowed whole by steel and fire and smoke.

“Take the World Trade Centre attacks as the case study” the doctor continues. “In parallel to your mental condition the towers represent symbols of stability and sanity within your conscious. They are firm and strong and unshakeable against the petty trials and tribulations of your day-to-day life.”

On the sofa I stretch my neck to view a muted Fox News bulletin with the black stain of smoke spreading like a paint spillage across the canvas of the sky.

“Now the first plane – this represents a terrible occurrence that subsequently blights your life, jolts the structure of your mind for ever after. Awful though this is, you gradually learn to battle on – because you have to – and the damage incurred can therefore be coped with over time as it fades in traumatic potency.”

I know the first plane that he is referring to. My mother died a very sudden death when I was just 12 years old. Shards of memory recall her dropping me off at the school gates in her battered old Corsa, same as any other morning, and me then being called out of Geography class by a flushed school secretary to make my way to the head-teacher’s office, which sparked initial confusion and panic as I wracked my brain trying to think up excuses for crimes I may or may not have committed. My memory is wiped for about the next fortnight afterwards.

“That first plane – the untimely passing of your mother – was a complete shock wasn’t it?” the doctor says as though scanning right through my troubled thoughts. “It was out of the blue, a complete rupture of your carefully constructed sensibilities, and way of viewing the world. You have confided to me of the tail spin you went into as a result; unable to communicate with anyone, increased tendency towards violence with your peers, a subsequent inability in your young adolescence to form lasting or meaningful relationships with women.”

I can see the thread that Dr. Hammond seems to be pursuing here and whilst I think it ludicrous, I am intrigued at the same time. At the least I’m grateful that he’s begun relating his wild ideas towards the issues I initially divulged to him before he began his flights of fantasy – holding court on details of tensile steel strength in parallel with the frailties of brain neuroses and such like.

“Now by your own admission you struggled to keep that remaining tower of strength in tact, beating it on all sides by drink and drugs as you gradually became an adult.”

“Yes that’s right” I say.

“And then what happens is that you meet Sarah. Lovely, darling Sarah. Your beacon through the smoke cloud. The love you two shared signifies the second tower that you clung to with all your heart. You clung to it out of the desperate desire to repair the damage incurred on the first tower, the primary pillar of your mental wellbeing.”

On the screens there is a montage of vantage points showing the second plane appear into camera shot from nowhere, flung like an unwieldy slingshot across the state from a mischievous airport somewhere over the horizon. The tower remains unflinching as it envelopes the plane within its own structure as though made of sand, before erupting in a fountain of flame.

“Whilst the structural damage to the integrity of the mind manifested itself over a number of years, the second attack was far more deadly, more conceited; the act that confirmed malicious intent on the part of the perpetrators. You were completely unaware of your wife Sarah’s deceit weren’t you Robert? All those years you’d thought true love had been the driving force, whereas she’d been two-timing you all along. Two-timing you with a work colleague - Simon.

“Simon and Sarah, what a delightful couple they made. A delightfully secretive couple that is. Although it was hardly a secret, their affair, was it? Common knowledge according to all accounts. But no one was prepared to break the news to you, for fear you might finally snap. A fear that would have been entirely justified with hindsight, isn’t that right Robert?”

My mind is swimming with past and present fears and recriminations; all the while I’m hopelessly impervious to Dr. Hammond’s obvious attempts to provoke a reaction in me. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead I keep my eyes locked on one of the monitors replaying news footage, then the next, and then the next like a roulette wheel of carnage and destruction. One of the monitors is playing out the descent of one hapless man falling through the air like a stricken bird. Another clip shows two people leaping hand in hand through windows from which they must have often day-dreamed across the Manhattan sprawl beneath them. They could have been lovers, could have been strangers, both bound together by the mutual fear of not meeting death alone.

“The ones' who jumped Robert, represent the agony of having to make a decision when destruction is all that awaits you...”

One of the news reports slowly creeps in on a photo still of a man’s face as he embraces gravity with open and flailing arms. To my mind his expression is one of confusion but also of serene acceptance, as though he has been subject to a host of recurring dreams of such a deathly fall all his life, and fully expects to reflex back into consciousness just before the sudden impact.

I understand the idea that I was presented this choice, this dignity in self sacrifice. The notion that collapse was imminent was well within my logical capacity at that time; these towers of strength and wellbeing had now been damaged beyond any possible rehabilitation, the steel framework buckling and contorting under stresses far beyond their routine parameters. Responsibilities, expectations, ambitions, desires, hopes and fears, memories and regrets were now mere paperwork smouldering and fluttering like confetti through the air.

Dr. Hammond meanwhile is continuing to exhale his hyperbole but I am now no longer listening, lost once again in my own recollections of the choice I had to make, my eyes glued to the scenes of devastation that pass in striking cohesion alongside my own mental failure.

I had known that this second attack would be the catalyst that signalled the end of me one way or the other; I could sense the synapses of my brain crackling and sparking with electrical fervour as I struggled to comprehend the lies I had been living through for so long. When I saw them through the slightly ajar bedroom door of our family-sized flat I saw them in the throes of their deceitful passion, fucking like pigs on the marital bed.

As I stumbled back, recoiling as the shock ricocheted through the architecture of my body, rattling the foundations of my mind, my initial impulse – that of self-destruction, of jumping before the ship sank beneath the stormy seas of turmoil and anguish. Indeed I had that choice in those critical seconds and indeed I went to the kitchen in search of hasty realisation to my suicidal inclinations.

But blindly I had grabbed the steak knife from the chopping board and staggered like a ten-pint drunk back along the corridor, following the smell of their sex. As I began to stab at their screaming bodies with the knife the towers fell to the ground and my breakdown was complete.

The proud and gleaming towers that had held firm until now were swallowed up as though each floor was folding neatly away inside the one below, ready to be packed away into storage until the structure be deemed safe to stand alone once again. My mind was immersed in billowing ash clouds as I ceased my frenzied attack and stood back to observe the carnage I had wrought, the destruction of human life lain in waste on the abattoir of a bed, their flesh mangled like an array of rotten fruit.

“...think I’ve now developed the basis of my court report Robert. On the surface you remain functional, responsive and, believably, sane. But inside I am quite confident that you are deeply psychotic, a troubled individual who suffered a homicidal meltdown and now can’t quite come to terms with his own actions or emotions. I feel I have no option other than to recommend to your defence counsel a plea of cognitive insanity.”

He dials through to some adjacent voice, there’s an intermittent pause, doors open and I am lead away leaving the doctor alone to his deranged theories and video images and ink flicking. In the middle of the smokescreen, in the wreckage of atrocity, in the landscape thats left when the towers and everything they represent are gone, is right where I want to be.