The most telling scene in The Social Network was between Eduardo Saverin (Zuckerberg’s best friend and CFO) and his unhinged girlfriend. She confronts him after his return from a business trip, and demands why his Facebook status still lists him as “single.”

He confesses that he actually doesn’t know how to update his relationship status. His girlfriend believes it must be a lie… after all, as how could the CFO of Facebook not know how to update his status?

Rather than acknowledge the reality of being in a relationship, she resides in the “image” of reality. Rather than have an actual relationship with Eduardo, it’s not real until the image shows others it’s real.

For me, this is the true zeitgeist of our times.

Social networking has given us the ability to live our entire lives through the projections we show to the world. The sheer volume of “friends” that most people connect with online is far greater than the authentic connections we could hope to sustain face-to-face. Some of these friends we will meet occasionally, while most, never at all.

In effect, “you” ceases to exist. In your place is the “image of you” – constructed by status updates, photos, quiz results, movie clips, quotes, and of course, your friends.

This phenomenon is not new. We do the same thing with language, science, and religion. A Zen parable warns against becoming lost in the abstract: it’s like eating the menu instead of the food.

Similarly, Alan Watts argues in The Book, that this abstraction is not a problem in itself. After all, we have no other way of apprehending reality, other than through our interpretations:

There is no alternative to the use of conceptions and images, and no harm in it so long as we realize what we are doing. Idolatry is not the use of images, but confusing them with what they represent, and in this respect mental images and lofty abstractions can be more insidious than bronze idols.

Another example. The opening scene of The Social Network reveals Mark Zuckerberg and his soon-to-be ex girlfriend at the pub. After a rapid-fire argument, she tells him, “Even though you’ll likely be a success someday, you’ll think people will hate you because you’re a nerd. But in fact, they’ll hate you because you’re an asshole.”

Zuckerberg proceeds to become obsessed not with examining his own misperceptions about himself and others – but instead, about altering the perception that others have of him. Likewise, he flips the exclusion he faced from the top fraternity’s at Harvard by creating the most popular network in the world. Suddenly, everyone wants to be his friend – or more accurately, be “seen” as his friend.

The irony is Zuckerberg (at least as portrayed in the film) becomes so lost in the trappings of abstract relationships, that he failed to cultivate the one real friend he had – Eduardo Saverin. Their bond ends in bitter litigation and settlement.

Alan Watts continues:

“It is difficult not to feel the force of the image, because images sway our emotions more deeply than conceptions. When we realize that this form of identity is no more than a social institution, and one which has ceased to be a workable life-game, the sharp division between oneself and the ultimate reality is no longer relevant.”

The final scenes of the film return Zuckerberg to his ex-girlfriend scorned. Rather than resolve to mend their relationship in person, he reaches out the only way he knows how: he adds her on Facebook.

And refreshes the page…continuously…awaiting her response.

Last year, while watching Children of Men in the theatre, I remember feeling a slight twinge of deja vu.

It wasn’t the personal type that makes you wonder if you’ve dreamt a certain experience that actually came true. Rather, it was the unshakable dread that here, on screen, was a bleak vision of a future that may be.

David Roberts, reviewing the film for Gristmill, agrees with me. He writes:

“[Children of Men] It puts some flesh and feeling on the warnings of the doomers: the peak-oil doomers, climate-change doomers, nuclear-terrorism doomers, global-virus doomers, general-malaise doomers.

The techno-optimist response to, say, peak oil, is hey, when oil starts to get expensive we’ll respond in an orderly fashion and shift to something else, right? It’s not like there’ll be riots in the streets. Right?

But one thing Children of Men shows to visceral effect is just how shallow civilization is. Just how quickly the veneer can be ripped away and the lawlessness and brutality let loose. They’re always closer than we know.”

Walking out of the theatre that night, I wondered about my feeling of dread. Is it possible that the film was meant to serve as a warning to the very real possibility of it coming true?

Confirmation, in a roundabout way, for my question came more recently in a passage from Carl Sagan’s book Broca’s Brain. In praise of science fiction, to which he owes his childhood interest in science, he writes:

“The greatest human significance of science fiction may be as experiments on the future, as explorations of alternative destinies, as attempts to minimize future shock. This is part of the reason that science fiction has so wide an appeal among young people: it is they who will live the future.

It is my firm view that society on Earth today is well adapted to the Earth of one or two hundred years from now (if we are wise enough or lucky enough to survive that long). We desperately need an exploration of alternative futures, both experimental and conceptual.”

Viewed in this light, Children of Men is certainly an exploration of an alternative future. One that will come to pass if we do not remain vigilant in the ever-creeping erosion of our personal freedom, and collective control over the fate of our civilization.

As the list of films/books speaking to this future grows, we can’t pretend we didn’t see it coming.

There’s a scene in The Truman Show where Jim Carrey’s character (Truman Burbank) is sitting in a tourist agent’s office, attempting to book a plane ticket.

This would mark his first time ever leaving his hometown. Seems easy enough- except the ticket agent is bent on discouraging him at every opportunity. On the walls of the office are posters of travel disasters, including a bolt of lightning striking a plane. By the end of the scene, Truman leaves, without his ticket, and returns home.

The audience, of course, knows what Truman doesn’t: that he’s the subject of a reality-tv show based on his life. The producers don’t want him to leave the confines of the set, and so have manufactured various experiences through Truman’s life to keep him afraid to leave.

The film itself is a rumination on our own fear-controlled society. This is even more apparent in the US than Canada. I can scarcely cross the border down south without being confronted with newspapers declaring the threats of climate change, terrorism, violent crime, car accidents, ladders, appliances – the list goes on.

It’s no wonder that most people’s decisions are based on fear, and the minimization of risk. The safe choice is easier than uncertainty. Or is it?

Often the safe choice leads to a life of mediocrity – of passionless work, mundane days, and blurry weeks. Most people tend to envy those who make the bold choices, though rarely translate that inspiration into concrete action.

The fear is too great. Fear of what? Dig a little deeper, and the biggest fear of all is the fear of death.

“The ultimate fear is the fear of death, the loss of our ego and everything we have. In that sense, fear is nothing but a form of attachment, in this case to our life, our concept of ‘self’, and all our possessions etc.”

This fear of death permeates most of our decisions. It is the root belief that causes us to inflict pain and suffering on others, because we fear the black unknown at the end of our days. As much as some religions attempt to explain what happens afterwards, they can never be certain.

Says Tibetan teacher Sogyal Rinpoche:

“People see death as terrible, as tragic. Because they want to live, they see death as the enemy of life and therefore deny death, which then becomes even more fearful and monstrous.”

That got me thinking. If we could alter our perspective on death, what sort of life would we create? And what would it take to catalyze that paradigm shift?

No scene captures this imperative more effectively than American Beauty:

Ricky Fitts (Wes Bentley) confesses “That’s the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and… this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. “

He says “I need to remember.”

This continual remembrance is crucial to maintaining this perspective, believes Sogyal Rinpoche

“Remembering…brings life into focus…It sorts out your priorities, so you do not live a trivial life…It helps you take care of the most important things in life first. Don’t worry about dying; that will happen successfully whether you worry about it or not.”

Easier said than done. But a question to continually ponder, nonetheless.