The commercial opens with a series of intimate shots. Someone writing a letter by hand; someone shaking a polaroid as its exposure settles; a photographer outside, taking pictures with an old film camera; a writer completing his screenplay, on a typewriter. When the narration begins — with the word “stories” — the camera pulls back for the first time, lingering for a moment on woman at a cafe. She sets her cappuccino down on an worn, wooden table, next to an old, clothbound book. In her hand is her phone. She’s reading Facebook’s Paper.
The world of the Paper advertisement is a temporal distortion, albeit a beautiful one. It’s curated, just so, to replace the look and touch of technology as we know it with symbols from the past. The letter for the email, the Polaroid for the JPEG, the typewriter for the laptop. Each of these vignettes portrays a creative act we know, yet are far more likely to do digitally, happening in a world we know, yet is far more likely to be filled with synthetics and throwaways. It’s quite striking, actually. The ubiquitous plastic, cables, screens, and Ikea furniture of our world are nowhere to be seen. Instead, wood, cloth, and of course, paper. It’s like a grocery store doing an ad that only shows the produce section — no wrappers or boxes anywhere. This is an elaborate 21st century wizard’s curtain; behind it is just another app for your phone.
We’ve seen this before. It’s a product best viewed in a fantasy world.
(On the bright side, the Paper ad must have been good business for the vintage stores of the bay area, and will certainly be good business for West Elm. Where else could we go to reliably make our world look like this one?)
Recently, I was trying to explain to a friend what irked me about the film, Her. There were many things, but one of them was exactly what I find so false about Facebook’s Paper ad: They sell the “future” by selling the past. Her perfectly encapsulates the 21st century tech promo vernacular — the perfect West Elm catalog brought to life, the ukelele and xylophone music, the rapid cutting from one close up to another, the Instagram filter, the constant tugging on our heartstrings — but is the two-hour version, depicting a not-too-distant future which looks like a cosmic mashup of Minority Report and All the President’s Men. It’s one part “future,” three parts past. That sort of recipe’s secret ingredient is nostalgia, but in this case, for a past we really never knew! After all, everyone in the Facebook ad is too young to have experienced the 1970s (not to mention the 1960’s, where it seems Paper’s screenwriter wants to live — more on that in a moment). Our parents’ generation is completely unrepresented, and when they see it, they’ll tell us the sixties and seventies never really looked that good.
But the greatest irony is that Paper is selling a dream from which you will wake the moment you start using it. All of those beautiful analog moments portray things Facebook wants you to do in Paper. And for crying out loud, there is no paper in Paper. The name is a blatant mind trick. But is it a trick that works?
“Everyone knows that advertisers try to create unreal associations between products and lifestyles. Beer commercials show beer-drinkers living dynamic lives, so the implication is that consuming a certain type of beer will make your life more exciting. There is a kind of unreal message there. But this isn’t the same as subliminal advertising. The fact that the commercial’s erroneous relationship can be described and mocked proves that a consumer can recognize and reject the ad’s message.” – Chuck Klosterman, Ethicist
My sense is that the person Facebook has in mind for Paper is the same person who reluctantly maintains her Facebook account, already bored with social media, skeptical of the stacks behind it, and yet compelled to stay out of some sense of obligatory 21st century engagement protocol (“my family is there;” “my clients are there”). Does that sound familiar? She wants a life outside of Facebook; Facebook sells her that dream inside Facebook. I think she’s smart enough to pass. I hope she is.
But back to the future on screen for a moment. Steven Spielberg convened a group of technology experts to contribute to the design of the future that Minority Report would portray. Their research and insights made for a pretty fresh take on the future, equal parts mundane and fantastic, but entirely believable. That was twelve years ago; much of what was new and strange then has since become not-so-new and not-so-strange. The rest of it… well I guess we still have things to look forward to. Spike Jonze, on the other hand, seems to have gone no further than Pinterest for his research. His (or Her) is a world glibly built upon a slight riff on today’s aesthetic, not tomorrow’s technology. It’s a world created to be comfortable to the audience, one into which we could step right now and, as far as I can tell, navigate just fine. Perhaps, in fairness to Jonze, that’s the point: Sure, it’s weird that Theodore falls in love with his operating system, but as is clearly the point, how far away are any of us from emotional dependence upon our technology? Her isn’t really about the future, it’s about the now, and the style makes that clear. But wait! you say, High-waisted pants! Give it a year. Someone will be wearing them.
If it were possible to tune a chronovisor on 2054, I think we’d see plenty of things that, though we recognize them, have changed just enough over time to make us uncomfortable, disgusted, or afraid. Spielberg nailed this juxtaposition over and over again in Minority Report. John Anderton walks into a Gap, but is followed by a digital marketing omnipresence that knows a little too much about him and is too casual with sharing those details aloud. Anderton’s police squad wield batons that are used not to strike, but to induce projectile vomiting, and “halo” — a device placed on the neck which renders the wearer unconscious — their perpetrators rather than just cuff them. The aggression has been turned up a bit across the board. In Spielberg’s 2054, voices in the air, flying cars, jet packs, sick sticks and halos all make up a technological landscape that is both recognizable and repellent, one that draws upon our imagination to explain just how things got that way. Facebook and Jonze put that same logic in reverse. It’s a world filled with antiques and one, preferred contemporary technology as the centerpiece. While that’s kind of weird, it’s just not weird enough to be a believable future. It asks nothing of our imagination, but assumes our need for comfort and instant gratification.
So is the future weird or is it comfortable? Yes. The future is weird, but what’s especially weird is how normal it will be when we’re there. No one knows just how it will look, but I’ll wager that what the crystal ball will show will always be stranger than fiction.
Grouping Her and Paper together may seem unfair. One is a fictional film, the other an advertisement. But both couple the future — Her as a metaphorical device, and Paper as a manipulative device — with contemporary aesthetics to lower our expectations to be satisfied by less.
Here’s the thing. I like mid-century modern aesthetics just as much as the next guy. I’m sure there’s some cogent analysis out there as to why we of 2014 decorate our homes like Charles and Ray Eames, but as for right now, I don’t know why. And it probably doesn’t matter much to what I’m fussing about with Her and Paper. We just like the simplicity, the colors, the surfaces. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with appreciating beauty in things — no matter when they are from — or even wanting to build an entire world around them. That’s the thing dreams are made of. I would certainly be pretty happy with a future of fewer screens and more corduroy (or whatever hipster fabric du jour). I’ve even fantasized about a desk like Charles Eames would have had — big, heavy, solid wood, on which would be some paper, pens, perhaps one wire for a lamp, and no screen of any kind. But that’s not going to happen. The screens, the particle board furniture, the snarl of wire under our desks, the awkward laptop in bed, the plastic, the GUI, the web, for goodness sake — this is all our world today. If the world of Her has the freedom to fully return to Eamesian simplicity because its computers are omnipresent and conversant, wonderful. But Paper has no such excuse. You’re supposed to be downloading Paper right now.
The world of Paper is an anachronism. It’s a screenless world created to sell you a thing made for the screen. It’s the past resurrected in order to convince you that something entirely common today is actually a portal to the future. Anyone touching a shiny, bright screen is going to look futuristic when they’re ensconced in a world furnished with stuff from Grandmother’s attic. This is a manipulation. If we want the world of Her, let’s actually go build it. Let’s figure out how to build technology that can be productively used without having to stare at it all the time. Let’s figure out how to do that in a way that doesn’t continue to hand over our privacy and free will to corporations that clearly still haven’t figured out how to get out of the advertising game. Let’s figure out how to break the attention barrier and return to a sense of technological progress that is measured by how useful things are, not how good they are at catching us in digital traps where we waste our lives clicking things. But let’s not delude ourselves that we’re just an app-install away from a frictionless and clean world of invisible technology. If the number of cables I carry around with me every day is any indicator, we’re far from it. If the business models of most highly valued tech companies are any indicator, we’re very far from it. Oh, and as for how we achieve the clean part, your guess is as good as mine. Facebook and Jonze don’t show you the massive, energy sucking data centers behind the tech in their future worlds — the 40,000 megawatt blocks of nothing but snarls of cable and plastic. But they’re there somewhere. They have to be, unless they figured out some other way to store all our selfies and status messages, and some other way to keep the lights on besides burning things.
This visual mashup, created by Kim Dong-Kyu, is much more realistic. It’s as if it depicts a timeslip — the room of a 19th century French artist invading the room of a 21st century American consumer.
There’s a messiness to imagining the future that only time can clean up. Looking backward, is easy, and can be done with plenty of present-applicable irony, as Dong-Kyu’s “his room” so incisively shows. Looking forward, we cobble together our images based upon the most cutting edge fragments we have, and of course, it’s going to be a strange pastiche, perhaps similar to Dong-Kyu’s work after all. Whether we do this for weirdness’s sake is another question — one brought up by Bruce Sterling in his commentary on the new aesthetic. He wrote:
“The New Aesthetic is gooey all over with noosphere sauce. It can’t go where it needs to go, unless it climbs out of that old rubbish patch. Over it, around it, through it, whatever it may take…That’s the big problem, as I see it: the New Aesthetic is trying to hack a modern aesthetic, instead of thinking hard enough and working hard enough to build one. That’s the case so far, anyhow. No reason that the New Aesthetic has to stop where it stands at this moment, after such a promising start. I rather imagine it’s bound to do otherwise. Somebody somewhere will, anyhow.”
The confinement Sterling writes about — that we are looking out from within the “rubbish patch” — aptly describes the Achilles heel of futurism: being very much of the now. It lacks experience of the actual future. Even Spielberg’s deeply researched futurism is still looking out from the rubbish patch. I know this because heroes in 2057 still wear Gap pants. By the way, if you want a dose of futurism that is at least trying to have an out-of-the-rubbish-patch experience, you should read Bruce Sterling and Jon Lebkowsky’s State of the World.” Their dispatch is essentially an annual attempt at that — the weirder, the better.
Speaking of science fiction authors calling us out from the rubbish patch, William Gibson tweeted this a few days ago:
“In the early 21st Century, the hot look for younger white men will be Bearded Methodist Sunday School Teacher.” — nobody, 1967
Which brings me back to this guy — our screenwriter, Will Bailey. I know his name because I paused the commercial long enough to catch the cover of his script: “An Original Script, by Will Bailey.”
Check him out. Is he not exactly whom Gibson is describing? He’s really got this whole look covered — down to even the home furnishings. Beard and thick-rimmed glasses? Check. He’ll raise you one cardigan. But why stop there? Will Bailey uses a typewriter. Who knows why. It certainly can’t be for any other reason than some arbitrary preference for antiquity because anyone who writes on even a slightly regular basis would sooner choose pen and paper than a typewriter (assuming we’re going to be Amish about our laptops for some reason). Pen and paper makes for easy crossing out and writing between lines. But fixing just one, minor typo on a typewriter is a huge interruption, and can’t even be done that well more than once. Also, whiteout. You’ve got to be kidding me. Here on my laptop, I’ve corrected 5 or 6 typos inline without even really noticing it. I don’t care how of-the-now that makes me look, I will never use a typewriter. But Will Bailey does. Fine, good for him. But here he is seriously contemplating his phone. This is a very particular sort of luddite. Actually, one could make a study of his entire desk, but I can’t get past the tape dispenser and stapler without having to imagine something science-fictional like that Will is actually from the late 1960s and is dumbfounded by this future artifact that has suddenly appeared in his hand. That’s a much more believable scenario than just taking this image at face value as far as I’m concerned.
So why pick on Will Bailey? I’m sure he’s a nice guy. My problem with this character is that he represents a sentiment that does exist in the world right now — particularly among the upper-middle-class digerati of Western culture — of fashionable luddism. It’s this peculiar rejection of certain forms of technology at certain times based upon a pretty subjective (and continually evolving) sense of what is most “authentic.” It’s what might make Will Bailey use a typewriter, but not a laptop, to write his screenplays, yet engage digitally on his phone. For all I know, Will Bailey is listening to Spotify on his phone while he types on his typewriter! I worry for Will Bailey’s hearing. He’d need to turn up the volume quite high to drown out the incredibly loud CLACK CLACK CLACKING of his typewriter. Oh, and there’s another reason why writers were all too happy to leave the typewriter behind: the CLACK CLACK CLACKING. But this authenticity thing is real. It makes people do weird things that seem contradictory, but may, in fact, not be due to some elaborate compartmentalization of thinking and doing. And to be fair to us all, some of our choices are messy and indefensible and that’s perfectly OK. Is it OK for Will Bailey to use a typewriter? Sure it is. Is it a bit silly? Yes, of course. But no sillier than my preference for printed books. Or my delivery subscription to the Sunday Times. Or my aversion to plastic except where it requires me to not be lazy and bring my own shopping bag to the grocery store. Our lives no doubt offer numerous examples of this sort of thing, where in one case we’re Marty McFly, wearing that shiny hat (perhaps we will — we’re just a year away from 2015, after all), while in another we’re pushing backward or holding the line of progress in some form.
I suppose all these contradictions and idiosyncrasies are just a part of making sense of time passing and progress — as a larger, metanarrative — pushing us forward. It’s like a whirlwind, really, mixing things up, shaking things loose, but moving, whether we like it or not. I suppose there’s nothing to object to in that. But when it comes to making all the choices that make up our whirlwind-to-the-future experience, it seems preferable to do so as carefully as we can. Well, in accordance with their importance, of course. I wouldn’t want to deny anyone the right to wear a cardigan.