Mountainhead is a tech-bro horror show - New Statesman

Here in my TV critic’s penthouse, with its giant bags of snacks, hand-knitted throws and wraparound 24/7 flatscreens, Jesse “Succession” Armstrong has at last chucked me some more red meat to chew on in the form of Mountainhead, a film he has both written and directed. Obviously, I couldn’t be more pleased. The stomach has been rumbling for a while now. I still miss his last lot of monsters; part of me will always mourn Tom Wambsgans.

But it has to be said that the new bunch are too unambiguously cold – yes, even by the standards of the Roys – for maximum enjoyment. Also, for those of a nervous disposition, I would just quietly note that it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility the dystopian future it so terrifyingly depicts could arrive in – checks smart watch, ignoring its advice to “take a moment” – ooh, about six hours’ time.

It goes like this. Four tech bros, some of the richest men in the world, are weekending at Mountainhead, a rebarbative looking architect-designed house in deepest snowy Utah (it’s named for Ayn Rand, as I’m sure you’ve guessed); their host is its owner, the the poorest of them (yet to make his first billion), Hugo Van Yalk (Jason Schwartzman), whose brainchild is a wellness app called Slowzo. The gathering is a reunion: these men-children, who once masturbated together on a biscuit, call themselves the Brewsters; they like bragging, banter, poker and working themselves up into a frenzy about transhumanism and freedom of speech. But behind the group hug, tension crackles like an old dial-up connection.

The oldest, Randall (Steve Carell), is pretending his cancer is cured. His one-time protégé, Venis (Cory Michael Smith), is twitchily trying to ignore the fact that the launch of an AI feature on his social network, Traam, has broadcast so much disinformation that the world is rapidly descending into violence and chaos. Venis, in turn, is desperate to make up with Jeff (Ramy Youssef), whose own AI business is able to tell audiences what’s real, and what’s not. He’s desperate to buy it. But alas, they fell out when they appeared on, yes, a podcast. As “genocide-adjacent” events occur everywhere from India to Uzbekistan, and Argentina and Italy default on their debts, Jeff’s stock is rising rapidly, even as his conscience is vaguely pricked (to locate such a conscience involves much scrolling). He’s not selling.

The dialogue is sharper than a premium Japanese knife, and often very funny. Jeff asks Hugo, aka Soups (a nickname that’s short for soup kitchen, because they think he’s such a failure), if his antiseptic house was “designed by Ayn Bland”. Venis tells Randall, who wants to know if his company has a timeline for uploading human consciousness and if so, can he be first up, that, yes, “Daddy” can be number one “on the grid”, but only after it has been tested on “a mouse, a pig, and ten morons”. The attention to detail, rich-living-wise, is unimpeachable. Hugo’s staff have a whole turbot ready for “picking” – picking fish are all the rage – as well as about 8,000 sliders, and every kind of olive, fruit, artisan ham and cheese you can think of. The house (obvs) has a full-size bowling alley, a cinema and – most important of all – water pressure that gives you bruises when you shower.

But, it almost goes without saying, no one’s happy. The anhedonia of the rich, of which I’m lately only half-convinced, is made explicit when the four of them don matching orange ski suits as if they were prisoners. And, as my granny used to say, much shall have more, of course. The first half of Mountainhead is better than the second, when greed and Musk-like excess takes over, and it all gets a bit Lord of Flies, only with cigars, saunas and the possibility of a pre-pardon from the US president.

Still, I stuck with it, and you will, too. Partly, it’s the transfixing amorality, an abyss you detect in Bezos, Zuckerberg and all the others who are suddenly so pumped and obeisant to Trump. But the performances are magnetically pitch perfect as well: Carell in his knitwear, Michael Smith with his waxy, Jared Kushner face. It’s a 90-minute horror show. All I’d say is: best not to watch it just before bedtime.