What The Shards and The Great Gatsby have to say about the kids we’re raising in a filtered world.
Watching The Shards made me realize there’s something essential missing in how we talk about authenticity with our children.
Over the past week, I’ve been watching The Shards, a limited series on Hulu, based on the novel by Bret Easton Ellis, who also gave us Less Than Zero and American Psycho.
The formula in Ellis’s works is consistent: young wealthy characters move through exclusive circles filled with status and style. It’s easy to scoff at the characters’ shallowness that’s fueled by excessive money, obsession with image and a lack of empathy.
But, as I look past the glitz, the glamour, and the shallowness of the 80s in his work, I’m discovering a deeper thread running through his stories. And, dare I say it, the books present a valuable lesson our sons need to learn. He’s warning us about the dangers of curating a life that’s all mask and no substance. The conversation we need to have with our sons is about human authenticity.
If you’re not familiar with Ellis’ work, his characters are obsessed with building their identities through material things: brands, outfits, cars, drugs, even the right neighborhoods. It’s all for show. In the opening scene of Shards, the protagonist, Brett, drives out of his way to be seen at the right theater in an affluent part of Los Angeles (the Bruin theater in trendy Westwood). Brett’s narration tells us he is wearing just the right clothes: Ralph Lauren shirt, Calvin Klein jeans, Gucci loafers, even though he is only attending a Saturday morning matinee. Even his car, a black Mercedes convertible, serves as another layer of curated image. None of these details drive the story forward, but they’re crucial to understanding the psyche of the character: everything about Brett is a carefully curated image.
This character trait isn’t unique to The Shards. In American Psycho, Patrick Bateman meticulously describes his morning routine and the products he uses, moisturizers, face peels, designer suits. He lives in a prestigious building on 81st Street, and every choice he makes is about projecting a particular image. Even Bateman admits, “There is an idea of Patrick Bateman, but there is no real me.” The persona is all that exists.
When our sons and daughters look up to these characters, there is a danger that the mask, the image is all that matters. And this is especially prevalent in today’s digital society. I’ve written about figures like Andrew Tate who promote an image based on bravado, material excess and the pursuit of status. These characters (and Andrew Tate is nothing more than a character…a persona) encourage boys to favor image and bury their true self. When our sons hide behind the mask long enough, the danger is they lose touch with who they really are. I’ve noticed my own kids hesitating before posting a candid photo online, worrying about how it will look. That moment of doubt is exactly the kind of thing Ellis warns us about.
I like to compare Ellis’ message to Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Gatsby’s flaw is that he is desperate to be loved by Daisy Buchanan. Gatsby creates a mysterious persona fueled by parties, a display of wealth and a desperation to belong to a specific set of monied society. But the difference is that in Gatsby, we eventually see that Daisy and Tom Buchanan are horrible people. Horrible to the point they cover up a death cause by Daisy. By contrast, in Ellis’ works, we don’t see the mask ripped away. He wants the reader to deduce that themselves. But that can be a dangerous thing.
Gatsby’s message warns, “Don’t let the beautiful surface fool you.” And Ellis’ message warns “Keep curating, keep curating, and no one will find what’s behind the mask.” In the end, consequences catch up to both characters, Gatsby and Bret. Gatsby loses his life due to Daisy and Tom’s cover up. Gatsby’s funeral is empty, none of the hundreds of people who drank his liquor and danced at his parties bother to show up. That emptiness is the moral payoff: the “mask” was hollow, and everyone who was drawn to the surface vanishes the moment the substance is gone. Bret loses himself in the image. His friends scatter and he is left alone, still covering up the truth.
Gatsby focuses on revealing the truth. Ellis encourages us to keep hiding it.
Ellis’s novel Less Than Zero came out in 1985; and we are all still running the same routine today. We assemble a version of ourselves for consumption before we even leave the door. We only post the edited, retouched version of ourselves for our friends to see. Image is pushed forward, empathy pushed back. We never post hard times: the times we truly need human connection.
If we longer we present our curated selves, the greater the disappointment when the people we need close to us eventually see through it. The human connection is severed, and any meaningful relationship dies. We learn the hard way that meaningful human relationships only thrive with a foundation of authenticity and vulnerability; two incredibly difficult qualities to show in today’s digital age. Our children’s future friendships and support groups, dating partners, spouses, and families need authenticity and vulnerability to survive. It’s what makes us human.
Will Ellis’ stories be eventually included as part of a school curriculum next to Gatsby? I’m not sure. Eventually Gatsby and the Roaring Twenties may not connect with today’s young readers. Will the works of Ellis step in? Only time will tell. But until then, we can use these stories as conversation starters with our sons and daughters. Not to scare them off from ambition or success, but to remind them that authenticity matters. Beneath the brand names and the bravado, it’s the willingness to be real that sustains us.
