MOUNTAINHEAD

Civilization is at the brink of its damnation. Artificial intelligence, once a science-fiction hypothetical, has begun to threaten every corner of existence. Humanity seems almost a lost art—compassion, thrust aside in an ever-expanding strive for progress. If the setting of Succession creator Jesse Armstrong’s latest sounds familiar, that’s because it is: a criticism, unquestionably, of the crises that, if left unchecked, may fracture from the very real depths of our society. Welcome to the world of Mountainhead: a much-exaggerated—and glaringly opaque— glimpse into the basis of these crises, and the self-preservational ambivalence displayed by the 1% behind their derivation.

The snow-capped peaks of the Western United States provide a gleaming backdrop to the tale: a juxtaposition, perhaps, to the crude nature concealed within. Our central cast finds themselves arriving at a mountaintop retreat—the home of one (half-)billionaire, Hugo “Souper” Van Yalk (Jason Schwartman), host of the weekend’s festivities. Randall (Steve Carrell), aging patriarch, trusted confidant, fights to maintain his reputation amidst the growing wealth of the younger generation. Jeff (Ramy Youssef) feels the weight of the world on his shoulders, the driving force, perhaps, behind his recent formulation of an AI tool capable of discerning truth from illusion; while Venis (a scene-stealing Cory Michael Smith), the group’s prodigal success, thrives off the misuse of his own illusive AI opus. It’s thanks to him that the world has fallen into ruin: factions warring, civilizations falling, due to the public’s rendered inability to ascertain fiction from reality. False news has become abundant, following the proliferation of deepfaked images corrupting every inch of public, social, military warfare.

It’s a well-opportune basis upon which to centre a satire, one all-too-familiar to the world in which we presently reside. A criticism of AI; the growing inability to trust what may, and may not, be true: it’s a timely, pressing issue, one rife for profound exploration. Mountainhead, it seems, is off to a solid start.

If only Armstrong had committed to such exploration. Yes, the concept is rich. It is unfortunate, then, that it near-immediately takes a backseat, as the focus turns, instead, to the long-held grudges, offhand musings, and exaggeratedly immoral meandering of its spotlighted quartet. If this is, in fact, a knell, one comes away from it feeling as though all hope has been lost. If it is, instead, a caution, then perhaps its focus has been misattributed. A testosterone-fuelled billionaires’ boys’ trip may, on paper, be the basis for much entertainment, yet its lack of thematic focus dampens the ultimate impact, making one wonder what, precisely, Armstrong’s intention might have been.

There’s an inelegance to the dialogue: jargon, needlessly opaque, repeatedly thrust into half-spat rows. Though intended to display a semblance of intellect, the sentences strung are so archaic, it ultimately leaves no impact at all. One might argue that this is precisely as intended—that such paradoxic lexicon is reflective of these characters’ interiority: effective character writing, perhaps. Perhaps it is—and yet it is simply so constant, so grating, one cannot help but roll one’s eyes after the tenth, twelfth, forty-eighth attempt. Furthermore, the script repeatedly lacks polish: yes, these men are written to be crude, self-centred, out-of-touch; and yet, their behaviour is met with such feigned commitment. There are repeated moments in which Youssef’s Jeff recites half-baked fragments, explicitly structured like a listicle, as if Armstrong were unable to decide upon which line to commit. A single occurrence of such might have been forgiving; yet when this is done repeatedly, Ven, too, adopting the itemized structure with neither cause nor rationale, it begins to feel like an oversight, lexical ambivalence, undermining audience faith in the script’s value.

It’s not simply that the characters are unlikeable; much can be gleaned from a good anti-hero, a character constructed with the intention to despise. Four billionaires, concerned with reputation, financial welfare, above all else, are bound to inherit significant flaw. It is a shame, then, that the quartet comprising Mountainhead come off akin to caricature, as opposed to presenting them as proper beings with means to criticize. Their actions, their perspectives, paint them as irredeemable—there’s nothing provided with which to latch onto any of them whatsoever. Though marginal attempts are made to humanize—one character expresses halfhearted concern over the fate of humanity; another sees his child come to visit in a (truly baffling) interlude that, really, does little to contribute to the plot—these qualities are thrust aside in the overall schematic of the narrative. There are no consequences for their actions; there is no karmic fallback that rains down. No, the rich simply sit atop their mansion, the world aflame around them, quibbling over trivial social disputes before offhandedly selecting a country to (seemingly-non-hypothetically) unseat. It’s so outlandish, so outrageous, that no real message can be gleaned, aside from the unimaginative ‘billionaires = selfish = bad.” For a film helmed by the auteur behind Succession, it feels as though there should have been potential for so much more; and yet, the ultimate messaging remains so shallow, one wonders what the purpose of production was at all.

That said, there are a handful of memorable moments. “Are we,” one asks, “the bolsheviks of the new world order that begins tonight?” It’s a harrowing inquiry—and an excellent scrap of dialogue, reminding us of Armstrong’s scribing skill. Peering upon the set-up of a Risk board as they, together, strive to plot world domination: the deep-rooted irony could not be more brilliant. It’s gleams like this that remind us that Armstrong is, in fact, a master of his craft; though its execution does come off as surface-level, it is in these minuscule moments that one recognizes that Mountainhead presumably did have depth that, early on, had underlain its genesis.

It is a shame, then, that Mountainhead simply feels like low-hanging fruit. And yes, perhaps that is the kind of art that’s necessary in today’s world: bold, loud, unflinching; a message so direct, it leaves no room for misinterpretation. Still, an audience yearns for nuance, tension, comeuppance: qualities all but lacking throughout Armstrong’s latest. When one’s anti-AI storytelling begins to feel almost as though it has been scribed by, well, the very target of its caricature, one begins to wonder where such a timely critique might have possibly gone wrong. The world is already on fire; the last thing we need is confirmation that those who hold the power are willing to simply watch it burn.