Laurie penny on the social network: facebook, capitalism and geek entitlement

The Machiavellian machinations of modern capitalism become a lot clearer when one realises that much of it is built, owned and run by people who couldn’t get a girlfriend in college. _The

Social Network_, David Fincher’s new film about the founding of Facebook, is an elegant psychodrama of contemporary economics: flash, fast-moving and entirely founded on the principle of

treating other human beings as hostile objects. The film’s basic formula is the familiar blogs-to-bling-and-bitches redemptive parable of male geek culture, with the added bonus that it

happens to be based on real events. The protagonist, Facebook’s co-founder Mark Zuckerberg, is a brilliant 19-year-old coder. His painful social ineptitude, as told here, gets him savagely

dumped by his girlfriend, after which, drunk and misunderstood, he sets up a website to rate the physical attractiveness of the women undergraduates of Harvard, thus exacting his revenge

upon the female sex that has so cruelly spurned his obvious genius. We know by now, however, that unappreciated nerds eventually grow up to inherit or at least aggressively reappropriate the

earth, and so it is for Zuckerberg: his website becomes the prototype for Facebook, a venture that will eventually make him a billionaire, mobbed by beautiful groupies and hounded by

lawsuits from former friends and business associates desperate for a share of his fame and fortune. It’s a fairytale happy ending, as imagined by Ayn Rand. OBJECTIFICATION INDUSTRY _The

Social Network_ is an expertly crafted and exhaustively modern film, and one of its more pertinent flashpoints is the reminder that a resource that redefined the human interactions of 500

million people across the globe was germinated in an act of vengeful misogyny. Woman-hating is the background noise of this story. Aaron Sorkin’s dazzlingly scripted showdown between

awkward, ambitious young men desperate for wealth and respect phrases women and girls as glorified sexual extras, lovely assistants in the grand trick whose reveal is the future of human

business and communication. The only roles for women in this drama are dancing naked on tables at exclusive fraternity clubs, inspiring men to genius by spurning their carnal advances and

giving appreciative blowjobs in bathroom stalls. This is no reflection on the personal moral compass of Sorkin, who is no misogynist, but who understands that in rarefied American circles of

power and privilege, women are still stage-hands, and objectification is hard currency. The territory of this modern parable is precisely objectification: not just of women, but of all

consumers. In what the film’s promoters describe as a “definitively American ” story of entrepreneurship, Zuckerberg becomes rich because, as a social outsider, he can see the value in

reappropriating the social as something that can be monetised. This is what Facebook is about, and ultimately what capitalist realism is about: life as reducible to one giant hot-or-not

contest, with adverts. AND THE GEEK SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH There is a certain type of nerd entitlement that is all too easily co-opted into a modern mythology of ruthless capitalist

exploitation, in which the acquisition of wealth and status at all costs is phrased as a cheeky way of getting one’s own back on those kids who were mean to you at school. As somebody whose

only schoolfriends were my Dungeons & Dragons team, I understand all too well how every socialist and egalitarian principle can pale into insignificance compared to the overwhelming urge

to show that unattainable girl or boy who spurned your dorky sixth-form advances just what they were missing. The narrative whereby the nerdy loner makes a sack of cash and gets all the hot

pussy he can handle is becoming a fundamental part of free-market folklore. It crops up in films from _Transformers_ to _Scott Pilgrim_; it’s the story of Bill Gates, of Steve Jobs, and now

of Mark Zuckerberg. It’s a story about power and about how alienation and obsessive persistence are rewarded with social, sexual and financial power. The protagonist is invariably white and

rich and always male — Hollywood cannot countenance female nerds, other than as minor characters who transform into pliant sexbots as soon as they remove their glasses — but these

privileges are as naught compared to the injustice life has served him by making him shy, spotty and interested in _Star Trek_. He has been wronged, and he has every right to use his l33t

skills to bend the engine of humanity to his purpose. This logic is painful to me, as an out-and-proud nerd. For a person with a comics collection, an in-depth knowledge of the niceties of

online fan fiction and a tendency to social awkwardness, it is distressing to see geekdom being annexed by the mythology of neoliberal self-actualisation. There’s far more to being a geek

than maladaptive strategies that objectify other human beings as hostile obstacles who deserve to be used to serve the purpose of one’s own ambition, but watching _The Social Network_, you

wouldn’t know it. For me, being a geek is about community, energy and celebration of difference — but in the sterile fairytale of contemporary capitalism, successful geekery is about the

rewards of power and the usefulness of commodifying other humans as a sum of likes, interests and saleable personal data. The tragedy of _The Social Network_ is also the intimate tragedy of

an age whose self-alienation has nothing to do with social networking. The paranoid atomisation of modern social relations has, in fact, very little to do with the internet at all. It has

everything to do with a global economic machine that trains human beings to understand one another as manipulable objects or faceless consumers. That, unfortunately, is a trend that did not

start on Facebook.