The Social Network is Creepy and Fascinating

The Social Network (2010)

Directed by David Fincher

PG-13, 121 mins. (Sexuality, nudity, language)

* * * *

Mark Zuckerberg is the smartest guy in every room he enters. The problem is that he knows it and he’s also either suffering from Asperger Syndrome or is a full-blown sociopath. As such, Zuckerberg has the sensitivity of a two-year-old, the morals of a sadist, and the self-control of a Turret’s patient. And he’s not even the most unlikable figure in the film. That dishonor would go to Jason Timberlake playing Napster creator Sean Parker, who packs more crude than the Gulf oil spill.

Be forewarned; seeing this (barely) fictionalized account of how Facebook came into being will make you immediately want to do five things: trash your Facebook account, kill Zuckerberg, assassinate the founder of Napster, call for a federal investigation of Harvard, and start a class war. Is The Social Network real? Technically it’s fictional and is based on the Ben Mezrich novel The Accidental Billionaire. Zuckerberg says it’s fanciful, Parker (Sean Fanning in real life) hasn’t said much, and several of the litigants who claimed Zuckerberg bilked them are silent because they signed non-disclosure agreements. But the fact that no defamation lawsuits have been brought against Mezrich, Fincher, or script writer Aaron Sorkin suggests that none of the villains of this piece--and there are precious few good guys--feels confident enough to air their views of the truth in public. (Sorkin insists the film is pretty close to reality.)

The film opens at Harvard in 2003. Zuckerberg (Jesse Eisenberg) has just been dumped by his girlfriend (Rooney Mara) and retreats to his room to slander her on his very-public blog, get drunk, hack into Harvard data bases, and set up a Website that allows testosterone-poisoned Harvard males to rate the relative “hotness” of Harvard coeds. This was the genesis of Facebook. Without giving away too much, getting to the Facebook of the present also involved Zuckerberg double-crossing a trio of secret society lads (including the smug Winklevoss twins, both played by Armie Hammer); putting the screws to Eduardo Saverin (Andrew Garfield), his only friend; and coming under the Svengali-like influence of Sean Parker/Fanning. The unindicted coconspirator is Harvard, a fetid cesspool of arrogance, self-indulgence, sexism, bad behavior, and contempt for everyone who lacks the social privileges enjoyed by the Crimson-clad spawn of Satan. Among the many questions raised in the film is why rich kids are allowed to get away with actions--sexual harassment, hacking, invasion of privacy, lewdness, drug dealing--that would land a public university student in prison. (Still another question is how this film managed to wrangle a PG-13 rating.)

The Social Network is like watching a horror flick; we don’t want to look but we do. Credit Fincher’s focused direction, Sorkin’s acidic script, and superb performances all around, especially that of Eisenberg, who keeps our eyes glued on a character who is essentially a monster, and an unsympathetic one at that. The movie unfolds at a crisp pace and deftly handles a task that is hard to capture on film: the creative process. For all of his faults, Zuckerberg was/is a genius and to watch him build Facebook’s architecture and envision its potential miles ahead of everyone else is reminiscent of the scenes in Amadeus in which Mozart dictates scores from his sick bed while poor Salieri struggles to keep up.

I‘m not sure if we can call this a “good” film, as there just isn’t much social redemption to be found. It is, however, an endlessly fascinating one. See it, and then go home and take a shower. Trust me--you’ll definitely feel like you need one.

Tax Cuts for the Rich and Endless Toil for the Masses

Are you kidding me? Was Barack Obama kidnapped by aliens and replaced by an evil replica? Or is he just so friggin’ stupid that we should just give up on him?

From Washington, DC comes startling news. First, President Obama has offered an olive branch to the Republicans by saying he’ll consider an extension of tax cuts on the rich. For the love of Pete, the tax increase was only going to affect those making over $250,000 and he’s going to cave in?

There’s so much wrong with this that one hardly knows where to begin. First of all, we have the pathetic case of Democrats behaving as if they are the minority party. I grant that they’re quickly mismanaging themselves to that status, but…hello! Democrats still control the Senate and the White House. That’s one-third more than Ronald Reagan had when he was first president, but he had the guts to fight for his agenda. An inability to govern has plagued Obama from day one. Remember the renting of garments that Democrats lacked the super-majority to prevent filibusters? I’m sick of listening to Democrats whine. So here is a series of call-outs to President Obama.

First, govern or get out! Want something? As the British say, put a bit of stick about. As chief executive, Mr. President, you have the power to dole out and withhold goodies. Lyndon Johnson took on Congress when he wanted the Civil Rights Act passed. Among his tactics was a threat to veto every bill that came onto his desk until it was passed. Withholding highway funds finally turned the trick. Get a spine, Mr. President.

Right after you’ve grown a spine, get your ears cleaned out because apparently you’re not hearing Republicans who shout that their number one objective is to make you a one-term president. Helping this lot is like lending your pocketknife to a man who vows to slit your throat. Or maybe you don’t care that the GOP wants to give the country back to the thieves who screwed it up in the first place.

Or maybe it’s courage you need, though one wouldn’t think it would take a lot to point out that a person making a quarter of a million dollars ought to repay the nation that enriched him. Who will pay if the Bush tax cuts aren’t renewed? Individuals making five times more than the average family income. You know what? If you make that kind of bread you shouldn’t be whining about your tax bill; you should be on your knees and grateful. C’mon Mr. President--tell these greedy bastards to shut up and pay up. Who knows? You might actually convince someone you have leadership skills if you fight that battle.

If all of this isn’t enough, we get today’s news that once again the GOP is targeting Social Security. If they get their way, the age for full benefits will rise to age 69. Here’s another issue I’m sick of hearing about. Everyone who has a calculator knows how to make Social Security solvent--remove the income cap. As it now stands individuals stop paying Social Security on income above $106,800. Why, for heaven’s sake? Once again, if you’ve that kind of money you can afford to pay another 6.2% tax on it. A lot of us pay higher rates than that in sales taxes. But what’s the message here? More for the rich even if the rabble has to work until they drop? Tell the rich that they need to help secure the future of the elders. And tell young people moaning over SSI taxes that if they aren’t willing to pay there simply won’t be jobs of them--the geezers will have them all.

So I’ve attached an old cartoon from the Industrial Workers of the World. It shows how IWW members thought the world operates. One doesn't have to be as radical as the IWW to think that maybe it was onto something. As the old labor song put it, Mr. President, which side are you on? If it’s with the lot on the top layers, then I couldn’t care less if you lose in 2012.

Business Speak is for Idiots

When someone asks if they can conference with me I reply: “No. We can have a meeting. We can hold a discussion. We could engage in debate. But we can definitely cannot make a noun into a verb.” If pressed I also advise that at no point in our conversation will we incentivize, prioritize, interface, or benchmark. Nor will we construct a matrix, make a list of doables, or pick any low-hanging fruit.

If you have ever used any of the above phrases in anything other than an ironic context, repent! If you are currently using them, for the love of God, stop! If you use them and harbor the illusion that subordinates are doing anything other than laughing behind your back, seek help.

Think I’m kidding? Check out the BBC’s new list of annoying business phrases: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/7457287.stm If you haven’t gone to management school you’ll find this hysterical. If you have, you probably won’t get it. The truly hopeless will believe that their personnel finds their business techniques useful because employees have demonstrated “buy in” during staff meetings. They are so clueless that they cannot recognize feigned interest, the desire of staff to keep their paychecks, or playing mind games to stave off boredom.

Some people dream of utopia. Me too. But for now I’d settle for MBA programs that aren’t run by morons that graduate imbeciles who will make the lives of their future staffs miserable by insulting their intelligence.

Remembering Kate Wolf

Some performers wow you with their dynamism and/or their larger-than-life personalities. This month, though, let’s honor a gentle departed soul who knocked you over with a feathery approach: Kate Wolf.

Kate Wolf was born in San Francisco in 1942, and passed away in December of 1986, after a bitter bout with leukemia. She was just 44. Wolf was seldom dramatic, her voice was rock steady, and her musicianship framed songs rather than seeking to be a separate canvas. In fact, Wolf was a lot like northern California, where she spent most of her life--she was open, laid back, and unhurried. At first listening, it was easy enough to let Kate Wolf disappear into the expanse. Her voice was warm and comfortable, but much in the same way that an old sweater feels. Then one day you heard one of her records in the background and you suddenly couldn’t get her voice out of your head. You listened harder and that voice became the breeze that swept across the Great Divide on its way to the Pacific, the hawk riding the air currents like a sky-bound Zen surfer, and the twilight as the sun was setting. As a lifelong Easterner who has only sojourned in California, I think it was Kate Wolf who first made me understand how Westerners cope with the scale of the land. Everything out there is big--the mountains, the waves, the waterfalls, the fauna, the winter snowfall-everything that is, except humankind. You can’t compete with it, you can’t conquer it, you can’t sing over it, and Kate Wolf had the wisdom not to try.

Wolf made seven albums in her brief lifetime, and five more were issued posthumously. A personal favorite is Give Yourself to Love (1986), which is also the name of one of most-beloved songs. She was taken too soon, but the list of those who have covered her songs and/or have drawn inspiration from her is a testimony of the impact she made. It includes Emmylou Harris, Kathy Mattea, Greg Brown, Lucinda Williams, Dave Alvin, and Nanci Griffith. If you’re listening to Kate Wolf for the first time, don’t rush things. Let her songs envelop you like--well, that old sweater you drag out when the nights are cool, you’re feeling a little melancholy, and you just need something familiar and warm.

Listen to Kate sing "Red Tailed Hawk." (Nina Gerber on harmonica) and again on the achingly beautiful "Sweet Love."

Nanci Griffith's superb cover of Kate's "Across the Great Divide."

The Grocer's Son Delivers

The Grocer’s Son (Le fils de l’épicier)

Directed by Eric Guirado

96 mins. In French with subtitles, NR (Brief nudity)

****

This 2008 French film is enjoying a very small run in theaters--so small in fact, that’s it unlikely to show up in your neck of the woods unless you have a thriving art cinema near by. Luckily, it’s on DVD and you’d do well to put this one near the top of your Netflix queue.

It’s essentially a modern-day retelling of the Prodigal Son parable, except that this son, Antoine Sforza (Nicolas Cazalé), has no desire to be welcomed home. On the contrary, even though he’s living is a down-market flat in Lyon and is between jobs, he’ be happy if he never had to see either of his parents again, let alone set foot in his Rhône-Alpes village hometown. But when his tyrannical father (Daniel Duval) suffers a debilitating heart attack, Antoine’s desperate mother (Jeanne Goupil) convinces Antoine to return home to run the family grocery concern until the old man is back on his feet. In this part of France, a mountainous region adjacent to Provence, as often as not, grocers go to their clients rather than sitting in the shop waiting for trade.

Antoine is able to convince a neighbor, Claire (Clotilde Hesme) to accompany him to the boonies. Claire has had some bumps of her own and hopes to return to college to get our life back on track. She sees the trip as an opportunity for some study solitude as she prepares for her entrance exam, and she’s so focused she doesn’t see that the shy Antoine is in love with her. As you might expect, Claire’s solitude will be interrupted by the unfolding Sforza family drama.

You could pretty much write the script from here. The Grocer’s Son won’t win any prizes for originality, but it is--as the French say, charmant. The surly Antoine finds himself behind the wheel of a creaky van driving from village to village, where old folks come out to buy food a single egg or can of peas at a time. The story is pretty much one of redemption in which the grocer’s son, his family, Claire, and the business itself are transformed. Of special delight are two delicious roles played by older actors. Paul Crauchet plays an elderly widower whose mind, eyes, body, and property are failing, but he does so with such tenderness that he could melt a stone. But even he is upstaged by Lilliane Rovere as Luciene, a former coquet who now reigns as the region’s opinionated and acidic queen of eccentricity, infuriation, and outlandishness. When she’s on the screen, one can look nowhere else. Luciene is the sort of person you’d want to invite to tea, just so you can wring her neck!

The Grocer’s Son is populated by people with hard edges and soft insides. As a film it’s akin to the twisty mountain roads Antoine drives--from afar you can see everything that’s coming, but it’s all so darned nice that we want to go there anyhow. And when you arrive, you’ll smile and be glad you took the trip.

DAN POSSUMATO
Pulling Out the Stops: Traditional Music & Song of Ireland

Old Box Records 002

* * *

The second tune on Dan Possumato’s latest CD is Billy McComiskey “The Controversial Reel.” That’s apt in that melodeon/button accordion artist Possumato, like McComiskey, favors bold playing in which the notes roll across the room in waves. There are recent compositions sprinkled amidst the traditional tunes, but this is mostly old-style Irish music—the kind that doesn’t pretend that jigs and reels are stage spectacle. As a result, it is at once fresh and timeless rather than flavor of the month. This is not to say that the album is sparse—Possumato’s pulled and pushed notes are the album’s centerpiece, but he has enlisted a top-drawer guest list that includes Kevin Burke (fiddle), Teresa Baker (piano), Mick Mulcrone (flute, bouzouki, vocals), Quentin Cooper (banjo), and Elizabeth Nicholson (harp). What is billed as a squeeze box album is really an ensemble piece that has the intimacy of a late-night session in which the musicians are perfectly in synch. Possumato honors the sessions spirit by mixing the pace and mood. For example, a flute/melodeon jig set (“Dermot Grogan’s”), segues to a song (Mulcrone on “Boys of Mullaghbawn”), slides easily into some Irish reels (“Miss Langford’s”), and gives way to a Breton an dro. Later Possumato devotes one of the album’s sixteen tracks to a bodhrán solo from Andrew Dall. Like all great sessions, though, the big reel sets are there to stir your blood right after you’ve been pacified by whatever came before it. Check out the “Tommy Peoples” set.

Edie Carey--Great Voice, Bland Songs

EDIE CAREY

Bring the Sea

Edie Carey 50185-5

**

What a voice! Edie Carey has a glorious set of pipes, sweet, lovely, and enough bottom to give it texture and muscle. I’d love to hear her use it on better material. It would be wrong to say that the songs on Bring the Sea all sound the same—it’s more that they all have exactly the same feel. Seriously, you could randomly select three tracks from this CD, play them, and five minutes later you’d not recall a thing about any of them other than the fact that you sure did like Carey’s voice! Evan Brubaker’s single-note production is what you’d get if music was manufactured on an assembly line. The musicianship is safe, generic, and mid-tempo from start to finish—the sort of thing one expects from the house band of a talk show. Carey has the talent to be a major force—but not with these songs. She needs to work with a co-writer who can sharpen the edges, and a producer who forces her to shovel some grit. In this case, too safe is too bad.