The 2014 comedy series Silicon Valley proved that pretty much the entire species of tech billionaires are psychopathic to the core.
Created by Mike Judge, John Altschuler and Dave Krinsky, Silicon Valley had the luxury of presenting that reality with sharp humour, wit, and a kind of levity that Jesse Armstrong’s Mountainhead does not have. And that is a deliberate choice.
What seemed like a poke at a possible future in 2014 has become reality within a short span of a decade.
Mountainhead (yeah, just like Ayn Rand’s Fountainhead, which it even references cheekily enough for those who might have missed the obvious nod) does not have the luxury of time.
The world is already being burned to the ground by silly billionaire boys with giant egos, selfishness that teeters on the edges of psychopathy, and non existing shreds of empathy.
Billionaire Boys’ Club: A Brutal Mirror to Tech Power
Where Rand romanticised the rugged individualist, Armstrong exposes him as a petulant megalomaniac cosplaying as a saviour.
Every scene in the mountain retreat — from their obsessive net-worth rituals to the increasingly deranged scheming — strips away the veneer of innovation and reveals a cabal of insecure, paranoid, men drunk on their own power.
Mountainhead brings to life what Rebecca Shaw pathologised in her The Guardian piece, “I knew one day I’d have to watch powerful men burn the world down – I just didn’t expect them to be such losers”.
Set during a weekend retreat among four tech titans, Mountainhead traps its characters in a literal and figurative echo chamber as the world outside spirals into AI-fueled chaos.
They are like the Four Horsemen of the tech Apocalypse. There’s Venis “Ven” Parish (Cory Michael Smith), the Elon-Musk-meets-Randian figure who created Traam, a disinformation platform melting down democracies around the world. His frenemy, Jeff Abredazi (Ramy Youssef), owns Bilter, an AI company trying, evidently very ineffectually, to fact-check social media’s chaotic churn of lies.
Randall Garrett (Steve Carell), a dying investor and spiritual father figure (think Peter Thiel meets Steve Jobs meets King Lear), has a terminal diagnosis and an irrational belief in transhumanist salvation.
He routinely distorts Hegelian and Kantian philosophies to prop up his own warped worldview, as men like him often do.
And then there’s Jason Schwartzman’s Hugo Van Yalk, nicknamed “Souper”, aka Soup Kitchen, because he is the “poorest” member at the club with a net worth of only 521 million dollars.
Souper’s a lifestyle app entrepreneur desperate to prove he belongs at the billionaire table, if only his ironically agitating meditation app Slowzo can go unicorn.
There’s something profoundly, and ridiculously, unsettling about watching four grown men write their net worths on their bare chests with lipstick, as if they’re at some grotesque summer camp, shouting their distorted manifestations off a mountaintop and knowing this is still timid compared to what their real counterparts actually get up to on their off days.
Underneath the wealth, power, and massive egos, these men are just boys playing king of the hill.
Armstrong, who is well on his way to establishing auteur status, brings the same sharp, incisive eye that made Succession a sensation. But if that series was Shakespearean in its scope, Mountainhead is more manically unnerving.
A Bleak Tech Parable That Hits Too Close to Home
It’s a satire that barely has to concoct an absurdity that does not already exist. Tech companies are already fully leaning into their supervillain era.
Meta recently bought power stations to power its AI. Everyone from Toyota and Hyundai to SpaceX is investing in rocket technology. Several billionaires, including Mark Zuckerberg and Bill Gates, have already built their underground bunkers—their luxury doomsday shelters—in fear of world collapse and nuclear fallout.
It’s only a matter of time before one of them unveils a volcano lair like some comic supervillain.
Unnecessary generative AI and deepfakes aren’t just spreading misinformation and bigoted distortions of truth, they’re also guzzling energy, accelerating planetary collapse, and duping your neighbourhood Monus and Chintus into thinking they’re artists, when all they’re doing is feeding stolen work into a machine that’s making everything worse.
What’s brilliant and horrifying about Mountainhead is that it doesn't spend time explaining the mechanics of global collapse. Armstrong knows that we already understand how it is happening.
Traam’s AI-generated misinformation doesn’t need a backstory; it’s the world we live in. After all, we are watching a genocide unfurl in Palestine in real time, unable to do anything about it.
When Satire Stops Being Funny
Armstrong’s decision to pull back on overt comedy gives the film a simmering dread.
This is not satire as release but heavy, slow suffocation. The climax pushes the satire into a surreal fever dream.
There is an attempted murder that fizzles down to just another business negotiation. But Armstrong never lets it become cartoonish.
By the time the Brewsters (as the group calls themselves) descend into planning global dominations through a technocratic coup, I felt so wrung out that I felt like I was emotionally flatlining.
This is not your regular Eat the Rich buffet spread because it felt more like a documentary at certain points.
The rich and powerful wreak violence upon us with their Tuesday morning tea, but ultimately, we are just footnotes in the lives of the most powerful.
When Ven asked Randall about if he believes in other people it reminded me of Shahid Kapoor’s protagonist asking “Hum hai ke hum nahi?” (Are we really there or not?) in Vishal Bharadwaj’s Haider.
He was talking of his past and his present. But perhaps he was also glimpsing into this future where our very existence becomes irrelevant, erased in the eyes of those megalomaniacs who run the world.
The performances in Mountainhead are uniformly engaging.
Youssef (who also co-created the brilliant Mo) brings a weary, twitchy conscience to Jeff. He seems to genuinely want to make a difference but is too self-interested to notice the dissonance in his own actions.
Smith as Ven is a man so convinced of his own brilliance he doesn’t even flinch while watching severed feet being juggled or heads exploding live on his 4k screen.
Carell—with The Morning Show, Four Seasons, and now Mountainhead—has perfected the art of playing the loathsome mensch: a man who does all the wrong things with the misplaced pride of a stubborn sociopath. Schwartzman’s Souper has the studied grace of every cringey, kowtowing tech influencer and is arguably the film’s saddest creation.
He is a desperate striver. He is symptomatic of all sycophants who believe proximity to power is power. And he brings with him the pathetic reminder that even these men get to ruin it for the rest of us.
Mountainhead is too close to reality to openly guffaw at comfortably, but that is intentional.
In Armstrong’s hands, Mountainhead becomes a postscript to the tech boom’s ugliest chapter yet.
If Succession was about the corrosive legacy of media empires, Mountainhead is about what happens when there’s no legacy left to be handed down.
It is all scorched earth from here on out. And the men who lit the match? They’re meditating on dreams of colonising Mars, tracking their breath while the rest of us choke on the smoke and ashes.
(The author is an independent film, TV and pop culture journalist who has been feeding into the great sucking maw of the internet since 2010. This is an opinion piece. The views expressed above are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)