A funny thing happened on the way to Facebook

We're living in the social era. We've been ushered in through the ubiquitous use of social collaboration tools, mobile devices and humongous amounts of big data. Many of us source information, companionship, entertainment, news, or business opportunities from our personal digital collectives. We use Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, Twitter, Snapchat—and whatever technology was invented yesterday—to make simple human connections through electronic interactions. 

And who can blame us? With 24/7 information overload and a fractured media landscape, it's nearly impossible to gain context and perspective quickly or easily on our own. Instead, with a few clicks, we turn to the people we trust to derive meaning: the ones in our ever-ready, always-on social networks. 

Unfortunately, these friendly voices can start to sound like an echo chamber in a virtual gated community. The problem isn't who we are connecting to, but what they are saying, over and over and over again. While social tools give the appearance of bringing diverse people together, they may be promoting some old-fashioned groupthink, which only serves to keep us apart.

The promise is there. Sites such as Kickstarter, which funds interesting creative projects, or CaringBridge, which shares information about loved ones and caregivers, are great examples. Medical portals have become standard for sharing information about diagnoses and care. Social tools help rural high school students conduct research around the world or take specialized courses. There are numerous digital tools like these that have made peoples' lives better.

For politicians there is plenty to like about the social era. Fundraising campaigns, events and general communications are promoted through Eventbrite, Facebook, and Twitter. Social tools help candidates get the word out about their platforms, policies, and poll numbers. A savvy social campaign helped bring President Obama to power.

In this political season, Senator Bernie Sanders seems to be a natural beneficiary of the social era. Would democratic socialism have met with as much acceptance if we were not in the social era? It's more than a matter of "social" being at the root of "socialism." Sanders believes in creating greater, more egalitarian connections among people. He argues that the top 1 percent are disconnected from the rest of us and that this growing separation of haves and have nots is destructive to our political, corporate and social institutions. 

Donald J. Trump is reaping social era benefits too. It's easier than ever to stoke anger, outrage and fear among like-minded groups who are fed up with our political institutions. Empty slogans, hate speech and misinformation can be shared and promoted as easily as factual information—and with the warp speed and repetition that digital technology offers.

There is a case to be made that Trump's campaign has used the tools of the social era to promote authoritarianism and nationalism. But who has time to think about the bigger picture of political philosophy when breaking news pops like popcorn: fast, random, and innocuous until gathered in impressive quantities. 

We can't blame the tools. The social era is only as enhancing or destructive as we make it. What's a shiny new technology to do but strut its stuff? 

It may be possible that our social era is simply having an identity crisis as it unspools far beyond the realm of social media. It's in its adolescence after all. Maybe we just have to train it. At its best, the social era can help us collectively solve problems and share ideas in productive ways; it also has the capacity to encourage people to act like sheep, following a destructive path in agitated collectives, never bothering to look up and think for themselves before falling off a cliff.

For now, the social era is creating the backdrop for the exaggerated polarization that marks our current U.S. political season. To borrow from Forrest Gump, social is as social does. It's too soon to know exactly what we'll get.

"The Revenant" as chick flick

Standing in line in the ladies room after a Saturday matinee of The Revenant, I found myself surrounded by a bunch of bemused women who looked a little shell shocked. At first, everyone was quiet. Was it the vicious attack in the much-hyped bear mauling scene that had them stunned into silence? The nearly all-male cast that was difficult for women to relate to? The grueling two-and-a-half-hour runtime? 

"I really liked it," one woman offered sheepishly, as if she couldn't believe she'd admitted it out loud. 

"I know," said another, shaking her head. "The violence didn't bother me as much as I thought it would."

We all nodded our heads in wonder at our reactions to the film, which were unanimously filled with something approaching awe. All this from a movie that none of my female friends would see with me, afraid it would be too violent for them to sit through. But there I was with a chummy group of strangers who'd braved the elements of brutal cinema and lived to tell the tale. 

There is a lot to tell about The Revenant that women should hear (spoiler alert!). While the film has plenty of savage violence, it isn't a nonstop blood fest. Many scenes feature protagonist Hugh Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio) trekking through the northwest wilderness or plotting his next move with meditative deliberation.

Plus, when violence is shown, it seems accurate to what trappers might have experienced in the 1800s whether in battle scenes, mano-a-mano, or bearo-a-mano. This realistic portrayal of violence seems essential to this particular story. Uncomfortable to watch, certainly, but essential.

The big surprise is that The Revenant is not simply a testosterone-laced survivalist tale fueled by revenge. I felt a spiritual and feminine subtext underlying the hyper-masculine veneer.

Photo by David McNew/Getty Images News / Getty Images

First, there is Mother Nature. She is gorgeous, unrelenting, and in control. Shot solely in natural light with beautifully framed, single-camera shots, the film begs to be seen on the big screen. Its snowy, desolate landscapes with towering pines provide a dignified beauty that only harsh environments can deliver as simply and powerfully. 

Hints of feminine subtext surfaced quickly in an early scene between Hugh Glass and his teenage son Hawk (Forrest Goodluck). We learn that Glass's Pawnee wife is dead, and he plays both father and mother to his son, who is treated disdainfully by some of the other trappers because of his Native American heritage. When Glass crawls through the woods to confirm the horror of his son's death, I had the strongest urge to see Glass touch his boy, to literally feel the loss. I figured this to be a motherly impulse. But sure enough, within a few seconds, that's exactly what Glass does. He lays down with his son and nestles in with him tenderly for what seems like hours. This gesture of familial love strikes me as more maternal than paternal. 

Small moments punctuate the film with Glass's respect for women. He frees a Native American woman from a group of French traders who held her captive as a sex slave. This is done at considerable risk to Glass. He doesn't harbor thoughts of taking her for himself; he simply wants her returned safely to her community. In another scene, Glass carves out the innards of a freshly dead horse, strips off his clothes, and curls up in the fetal position inside the animal's cooling body. How could a viewer not think of a woman's body offering the most primal of feminine protections?

But it is Glass's wife, portrayed in flashbacks and dream sequences, whose enduring words and otherworldly presence convey the real feminine core of the film. Her lines, which are repeated more than once, inform nearly every frame of the film: "As long as you can still grab a breath, you fight. You breathe. Keep breathing. When there is a storm. And you stand in front of a tree. If you look at its branches, you swear it will fall. But if you watch the trunk, you will see its stability."

Glass seems to have absorbed her feminine wisdom, turning it into a sort of life-saving mantra. His wife appears on screen as a loving, spiritual guide, not a sexual fantasy or marginalized human. She is elevated, revered, listened to. She is never given a name, which seems to underscore her representation of all women.

The dual nature of the film's energy plays out through the ending in a scene that is stark and unforgettable. Glass, informed, by his wife's Pawnee dictum, "revenge is in God's hands, not mine," restrains himself from a final act of vengeance. During this sequence, there is a lingering shot of a saturated patch of red blood on snow, leeching into a river that seems to represent death, sacrifice, and rebirth. It is an indelible image that cannot help but invoke how women routinely give of themselves, physically and emotionally.

So ladies, go see The Revenant if you want. You'll find more familiar territory than you might expect. We bleed. We understand vengeance. We know that leaving a trail of carnage behind is sometimes necessary to create a new life. 

We are survivors too.

Citizen Trump: The sequel

I'm not the first person to compare the life of Donald J. Trump to that of protagonist Charles Foster Kane in the classic film Citizen Kane. Though it seems a good time to reflect on the similarities that are just too delicious to ignore as the U.S. Republican primary season approaches game time.

The top 10 "Citizen Kane/Donald J. Trump" moments:

1. They both have towering egos. Kane and Trump built iconic towers as paeans to their empires. Trump Tower and the towers of Kane's Xanadu estate convey power and lots of it. These structures function as cathedrals to the dollar bill. What could be more American?

2. Media is key to their power. Kane turned a family fortune in gold mines into the yellow newspaper The New York Daily Inquirer. Trump's popular reality TV show, The Apprentice, gave him a platform to fire people at his discretion and showcase his bombastic style.

3. They spout patriotism in response to, well, everything. Both accused of being fascists, they rely on slogans to prove their patriotic chops. Whether it's Trump's trucker hat with "Make America Great Again" or Kane's "I am, have been, and will be only one thing—an American," they know how to sing an American tune.

4. They embrace, then denounce, other powerful figures when it suits them. Trump used to heap praise on the Clintons, before he didn't. Kane was seen cavorting with Hitler. These mens' loyalties are as fickle as the New England weather. 

5. They know how to make news, about themselves. Despite financial foibles that could have diminished their reputations, both Kane and Trump never lost their ability to be utterly fascinating to the public. Their skill is in making the outrageous newsworthy. People can't look away.

6. They present opinions as facts and use a megaphone to prove them. As Kane says, "If the headline is big enough, it makes the news big enough." Trump shouts whatever he wants and people seem to believe him. Both adhere to Kane's motto that people will think "what I tell them to think."

7. They like numbers and name calling in equal measure. Kane brags about his circulation figures nearly as much as Trump boasts about his poll numbers. They conflate the accumulation of wealth with statesmanship. And if you dare to attack them, expect to be labelled an anarchist by Kane or a liar by Trump. That's that.

8. They like to feed the animals. Kane had a virtual Noah's ark of exotic creatures in a zoo at Xanadu, though in the end he was left with only a few monkeys lurking at the gate. Trump attracts rabid crowds at his campaign events and seems happy to treat supporters as chattel.

9. Politically, they are always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Their egos can't resist taking a turn at politics. While Kane ran for governor with an eye toward the U.S. presidency, he was never elected. Fingers crossed, this similarity continues and Trump never takes an oath of office.

10. Ah, Rosebud. The thing about sledding is that no matter how fun it is, you always end up downhill. Listen to this clip from documentary filmmaker Errol Morris in which Trump analyzes the meaning of Rosebud and reflects on the ups-and-downs of Kane's great wealth. Now who wants to argue with that?