Networked Personas, Catfish and Other Illusions

Manti Teo - (Photo by Mike Ehrmann/Getty Images)

"Your Catfish Friend" by Richard Brautigan

If I were to live my life

in catfish forms in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me," I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be at peace, and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."

As Congreve said, “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.” No rage is more pure than the rage of one who has been taken in and knows it. And when the woman scorned is a major media outlet, woe be unto the object of the fury.

The saga of Manti Teo, erstwhile Heisman contender from the University of Notre Dame, is not merely instructive. It fairly screams for sermonic adaptation. Here be dreams within dreams within dreams. We only thought Inception was fiction. Turns out it’s as true as true can be—or as true as anyone can weave a web of comfortably lovely untruths.

And to celebrate the achievement, we get to bandy a newly adapted word—from that most respectable of all bottom feeders, the catfish. The catfish is the new Eve of the Fallen Eden, the new Pandora of the celebrated Box, the new Jezebel to be thrown down from the window and torn apart by the dogs of public discourse.

The “new” term, which has evolved into the rarified advanced word-form of noun/verb, owes its origin to Nev and Ariel Shulman and their friend Henry Joost who created what is probably a faux-documentary, Catfish (2010), based on Nev’s “personal” experience. He “met” a person online and discovered over time that the person was faking parts of her networked identity. He decided to follow up anyway and plunge through the maze of conflicting messages to get to the bottom of who this person really was, though--given the nature of the film--all that is in doubt. Critics allege the film is too neatly packaged to be showing actual events. As a work, it may fall into the same genre as Exit Through the Gift Shop, another piece that mingles truth with dark irony to pack a message alongside an artistic prank (not quite as onerous as a hoax). Schulman has parlayed his work into an ongoing MTV series with the same name as his film that explores other incidents of “catfishing,” or being duped by a false online persona.

Another layer of irony is that the story about catfish and cod as told in the “documentary” is specious at best. As a boy living in the wetlands of southeast Virginia, I pulled my share of non-predatory catfish from muddy freshwater creeks. In a funny twist, the story may actually derive from a book of sermon illustrations. Regardless of the source, anyone who knows fish or fishing can tell you the story smells, well, you know. And this detail lends yet another touch of farcical comedy to the development of what is about to be a very common verb.

All recriminations aside, call this catfish Lenny Kekua in a fish story that grows more bizarre with the telling. If you don’t know the Manti Teo story, feel free to read it here.” Turns out the Lenny Kekua who died never actually lived, at least not in the flesh. Several major media outlets, including ESPN, were duped by the story that the star athlete was spending all his spare time on the phone with his dying love Lenny, all conveniently during the lead up to Heisman voting. It was a made-for-television drama that got made for television several times over by those who followed MT with great interest. MT apparently learned at some point that Lenny didn’t actually exist, that she was the creation of someone’s twisted imagination, that she was a special online plant who blossomed, lived a very short life and died a beautifully tragic death, all of which just happened to enhance and embellish the true-life story of the star athlete. Only it was all a lie. What we don’t know, and what is still unraveling, is how much and exactly when MT knew what we all know now.

Lars and the Real Girl

The story is a strange confluence of S1m0ne (’02) and Lars and the Real Girl (’07)—the one movie about a digitally manufactured actress pushed on the general public, the other about a desperately lonely man who is unaware that his girlfriend is a life-size doll.

Manti Teo, if he was truly duped (which many doubt) might be granted some slack here. Apparently the phenomenon of being “catfished” by a manufactured online persona isn’t that unusual. And it’s not as if the lines of personal identity haven’t already become blurred by technology anyway.

Who among us doesn’t want to be viewed in a positive light? We are all of us festooned with managed imagery every day, costuming ourselves for each role we play. Even the “genuine” among us who say they are declining to present a facade are, by their self-selection, presenting a carefully crafted image using loudly muted tones.

But the online Presence in which we are all granted an Avatar to stand in for our already altered selves takes the notion of image management to a whole new level. The gamey face I see in the mirror upon waking may be beautiful in the sight of God but is clearly unfit for Facebook. In fact, I can carefully control those bits and angles of me that people see. I can make of myself a sort of digital commodity and the people who constitute the audience for all of my socially networked connections (including  Twitter and Tumblr and Instagram and Pinterest and all the burgeoning legion of networking choices) create for me the illusion of a platform upon which I am perpetually posited. The imaginary crowd that “follows” me shares its love with comments, likes and favorites. If I am the rhetorical sort, I can scatter the seedlings of my thoughts upon the masses. If I am the emotionally needy sort, I can phish in any number of assorted ways for a cyberhug from my hundreds of besties. If I want to convert my audience of "friends" into a starter market for my wares, I need only self-advertise and create “pages” to be “liked” or "pinned" or whatever vapid new cyber-verb we introduce. It’s all about empowerment, right? And it has nothing at all to do with the marketing schemes of the people who were so obliging as to provide us with such platforms out of the sheer kindness of their hearts.

Are we all just a little catfishy? Are we all Lenny Kekua?

I don’t think so. At the risk of throwing the first stone, the ethical landscape has not really altered with the rise of all these new windows through which we can see and be seen. What has altered is the scope of opportunity, the target rich environment and the ridiculous ease with which one can deceive and be deceived. A lie by any other name is still a lie. And, as the high drama of the last couple of weeks has indicated, the fallout for a lie can be as radioactive as ever.

The moral, of course, is to have a care. Online environments are becoming increasingly accepting and even encouraging to catfish, many of whom believe they are just having a bit of fun. Anonymous pranskerism can be a heady rush for pimply geeks in their pajamas. But if we aren’t careful, this emerging brand of psychological vandalism may be the next common counseling concern as the victims line up for help.

Just a Spoonful of Torture: Zero Dark Thirty

One astonished recent reviewer for Les Miserables took care to warn people that the movie’s lines are all sung. “If you don’t know that going in, you might be surprised.”

I had a similar feeling for the movie Zero Dark Thirty. If you thought, as I did from the trailers, that this is the true-life Delta Force we’ve all been waiting for, only this time without Chuck Norris, then prepare to be very surprised.

Naturally I didn’t really think the film would be all about Seal Team Six. The actual raid on the Bin Laden compound is shot in real time for added authenticity, so there you go. What one might not expect is that the film delivers the decade-long “Hunt for Bin Laden” economically packed into the first two hours (and change). I don’t offer this as a problem, only as an observation.

Even as it receives accolades and major award nominations, Zero Dark Thirty is embroiled in controversy. Questions regarding depictions of torture, the film’s intent (is it propaganda?) and the unusual level of access to CIA and government figures by the scriptwriter have produced a veritable seething publicity pot for the release. Not surprisingly, Al Jazeera’s reviewers give the film credit for its own level of “collateral damage.”

Boal & Bigelow

The filmmakers are arguing fiercely for the fact-based objectivity of the film, trying to spin it as a neutral depiction of a true story with no political or otherwise hidden agenda. The problem, of course, is that artistic neutrality is a specious argument at best and a bald-faced lie at worst. Even documentaries are rhetorical; the very choice of subject matter is meant to draw our attention and enhance our awareness. The effect is always a subtle—or not so subtle—influence on consciousness that inevitably shades opinion and may possibly shape actual choices. While there is no hypodermic needle—stick the movie into your bloodstream and behave like an automaton—there is always some sort of positive or negative effect and a structure of new information upon which other information acts and reacts. There also may not be overt intentionality on the part of the filmmaker, but the framing of the story with its coded sympathies tends to privilege the reception and provides, if nothing else, a latticework of values under the surface.

Be that as it may, no great detective work is required to grasp the loyalties of this film. It begins with a powerful moment that I won’t spoil for anyone here. But the elements are clearly intended to re-kindle the cold furnace in the hearts and minds of citizens for whom 9/11 may have receded into distant memory. This is an undisguised and intentional setup to which the succeeding story elements cling with narrative fidelity.

Many critics have made much of the "misleading" faux-journalistic patina on the film, but anyone actually offended by such “truth” claims in a movie can only be marked down as naive. Don’t we all know by now that directors mesmerize themselves with the “truth” of their own art and care very little about everyone else’s misguided fetish for accuracy and fact? “Based on actual events” means just as much as “based on an idea by Fulano DeTal.” In other words, “Something did happen somewhere, but by the time I, the filmmaker, am finished with it, it’s going be a lot more compelling and interesting. You should be thanking me instead of condemning me.”

Along those lines, director Kathryn Bigelow and scriptwriter Mark Boal tap into some of the same strong narrative stuff that made The Hurt Locker so effective. They serve up a menu of sharply flavored fare, giving us tension, conflict and visceral action in carefully measured increments. I’m fully convinced that Bigelow and Boal are genuinely shocked by assertions that they are elevating torture as a viable means of information gathering. I really doubt they thought beyond the necessity of telling what a gritty and gut wrenching story. Torture for them was a means to a narrative end.

Jason Clarke as "Dan"

And that irony points up one of the central enigmas of this film. Jason Clarke as “Dan” delivers the same lines we are used to hearing from maniacal, leather-strapped villains as he goes about “breaking” detainees. Only he’s one of the good guys and he makes his threats without grinning through metal teeth. Later we see him clean-cut with white shirt and tie, the paragon of civilization itself, and somehow the paradox is washed away by the objective of killing Bin Laden. As an audience, we’ve been pushed toward justice mode, we believe the detainee is implicated somehow (he wouldn’t be a detainee if he wasn’t implicated, right?) that he and all the other conspirators deserve this treatment or worse. We want to think that the torture is justified. The payoff, that Bin Laden is bagged in the end, is the justification we require. It’s simple narrative arithmetic and therefore effective.

What most of the critics may not realize, or simply refuse to realize, is that a great many Americans who watch this film are going to have absolutely no problem with that arithmetic. None whatsoever. And it’s just as possible that Bigelow and Boal were counting on that. But who knows? Ultimately what this movie says, whether the makers intended it or not, is that you better not mess with the USofA because we have the wherewithal to get our revenge and we will persevere to the last full measure of our vengeance no matter how long it takes or how much frag damage we receive and/or inflict to get it done. So don’t start it.

The question is whether or not that clear message reduces the film to the level of propaganda. Bigelow and Boal are horrified by the thought, according to their interviews and the growing statements in their own defense. In fact, they feel very put upon by the accusation. They point their fingers (futilely) at a spirit of censorship and bluster that their artistic integrity is being called into question. I’m actually hoping they don’t win any Oscars because I cringe at the thought of the martyrdom they may feel obligated to pedal after all this.

So while this review is more about the controversy than the film, I should mention that it’s a good movie. Mark Boal is a good storyteller and Kathryn Bigelow is an innovative director. The impressive lineup of Brits and Aussies playing Americans lends gravitas even to the bit parts. (I’m always amazed and inspired by the work ethic of Commonwealth B-stars who labor so hard at little roles). Jennifer Ehle, Mark Strong, Jason Clarke and Joel Edgerton sketch their roles with strong outlines that lend credible definition to their characters.

Jessica Chastain as "Maya"

Jessica Chastain as the centerpiece of the film, Agent Maya, definitely delivers as the kid who came out of high school to hunt down the biggest bad guy in recent history. Thankfully the film does not resort to some sort of maudlin flashback to clue us in to the inspiration for the character's intense motivation. This leaves her to be Everyman and Everywoman Who Cares. And that may be a genuine description of the actual person upon whom her character is based. As a person with whom the audience is meant to identify, the choice clearly works.

Both the storyline and the “on-the-ground” filming afford us an efficient linearity that takes us from the Twin Towers to the compound in Pakistan where the 18 minutes of real-time raid provide a satisfying climax. At times the un-filmic verisimilitude felt a little like 1977’s Raid on Entebbe, a TV movie depicting the true-life story of Israeli commandos rescuing an airplane load of hostages in Angola. Only this time there was a singularly lethal purpose to the action. The tight dimensions of the story limit our view to a series of terrorist actions and undercover counter-terrorist operations, almost as though we are witnessing a deadly chess match where crucially important pieces are traded for advantage. The wider wars in the region are almost completely blocked from view, conveniently helping us to avoid any additional annoying ethical dilemmas.

One critic referred to ZDT as “the best movie you won’t have any fun watching.” It’s true that one does not leave the theatre with any sense of “Huzzah, America!” At the same time, the “enemy” is sufficiently dehumanized in this film and even the Pakistanis are so completely marginalized (referred to almost dismissively as “Paks”) that any sense of internal debate is quickly quelled. In the end, we get UBL, and that’s what matters. In the end, it’s all about catharsis for an America that is no longer the victim but the great Righter of Wrongs.