The Social Network was one of the most popular movies of 2010. A difficult-to-categorize drama, the film provided a completely factually accurate glimpse into the crazy madcap world of technology startup ventures. It was movie of the year on 78 critics' year-end lists, and has been called "the Citizen Kane of this generation." Aaron Sorkin, a former playwright and aspiring sketch comedy writer, penned the movie as a one-off deal for Columbia Pictures in order to pay his rent. Music video director David Fincher also was uninterested in returning to the franchise. Despite a complete lack of artistic direction, a sequel was ordered and produced. After costing the studio an estimated $50 million, the film was suddenly and inexplicably cast into development hell and stricken from the ledgers. Nonetheless, a completed scriptment of the film has been found, and UnScripts is proud to share it with you now. Without further ado, The Socialer Network.
The Socialer Network
Int. Modern boardroom - dusk
Somehow, it appears hot. Wilting plants in the corner probably give off a rank odor, and the sun is seen in the center of the window, setting. Evan Williams, an older gentleman dressed in a polo shirt and jeans, is sitting at the head of a boardroom table, head in hand, surrounded by a mix of attractive and unattractive young people. Camera tilts to view the table, which says "ODEO" in pink letters; Williams smacks these letters and speaks as the camera whips to face him.
We can't help it if they updated their program to support podcasts. To be honest, I should have known it was coming. It's just a shame that iTunes is such a great product with absolutely no flaws. Thank goodness they keep adding more features to it, even if it does harm us.
The camera pans behind Williams to see a man in a stereotypical black suit with a com unit attached to his head. He touches his ear and gives a thumbs up to Williams, who wipes his forehead in relief. He whispers "bastards are everywhere" and continues.
Anyway, we've been sitting here all day, and we haven't come up with any ideas. Just pretend you have millions of unspent money at your disposal to do whatever you want with. Hell, don't even pretend. YOU HAVE IT! Jesus, you guys are supposed to be the smartest in the country and you haven't come up with shit.
Apple is everywhere.
Come on, I made Blogger work. All you have to do is pander to people's delusions that they're important. Your idea will be successful.
So...like...you know Chinese take-out? What about, Chinese take-out, except it's people instead of Chinese food.
I don't understand. Are you telling me you want to create a human trafficking service?
Yeah, like, what if you need a date? You can't find one, you're bored, so you log on, pay us some dough, and boom, date!
I'm going to stop you right there, because it's illegal.
Yeah, so, that's retarded. Next.
Um...I think...no, never mind.
More silence, then:
Just going back to mine...why, exactly, is that illegal?
So, OK, what if...what if we just made another type of blog. But it was, like, a picture blog?
What, so hipster douchebags can post things they think are cool and not pay me any money? Fuck that. Next.
The camera focuses on Kid #3, clearly engrossed in thought. Suddenly, he stands, as uplifting string music begins to play; it crescendos throughout his speech.
That's it! We have to do another type of blog. But not pictures, that probably wouldn't work. No, it has to be a forum for original thought. That's what really makes people feel smart. And when people feel smart, they like what makes them feel smart. But the problem, of course, is that people aren't smart. So what's the least common denominator in our society in terms of intelligence? A text message. So, in the same way that a blog is a journal that anyone can read, this new thing will be a text message that anyone can read. It's the wave of the future!
No. No, definitely not. Your heart's in the right place, kid, but there's no way that could work. Reading text messages doesn't make people feel smart at all. The reason blogs make people feel smart is because nobody actually reads them; the same thing can't be said for text messages. So, no. Next.
Fidgeting. Everyone is probably pretty hungry.
I still don't see the big deal about our idea...
(cutting off Williams' sputtering)
Look, why don't we give Dorsey's idea a try? That's not illegal, and it's the only viable idea we've had this whole damn day.
Fine, I guess that's something. I don't like it though.
(pulling out checkbook)
Here's five million dollars, Dorsey. Now everyone get out.
Dorsey walks away with check in hand pumping his fist. When everyone has left, Williams pulls out a bottle of rum. Ominous music swells as it becomes quite apparent that Williams is an alcoholic. Just why he has a bottle of alcohol within reaching distance of a chair in the boardroom isn't explained at all, but he puts it back into its mysterious hiding place without opening the cap. He gets up disgustedly and walks away, the camera remaining fixed on the swiveling chair he has just left. End scene.
Int. Dirty apartment - night
Ramen Noodle cups are strewn across the floor. A fishtank with a dead fish sits neglected on the table next to the door; the water ripples when Jack Dorsey slams the door open and shut again, followed by Kid #1, whose name is Biz Stone. They both rush to the computer, where Dorsey sits down and begins typing absurdly fast.
What are you doing?
(clearly hitting random buttons just to make the cool clickety-clackety noise)
Is that how coding works?
Dorsey "codes" for another 10 seconds, leans back, and pushes Enter with his index finger in an exaggerated motion.
Dorsey gets up to open the door, and Stone notices something onscreen.
Oh, he spelled SMS wrong. I'll fix that for him.
Five implausibly attractive women walk into the room, followed by Dorsey. He raises his arms and his eyebrows as if to say "gettin' some action, oh yeah." The implication is that the two are both virgins straight out of college.
Oh, hey ladies. By the way, Jack, I fixed some -
Great, sure, whatever. This is Jeanette. Jeanette, this is Biz Stone.
(giggles; her speech is such a caricature of dumb bimbo that it's nearly incomprehensible)
Hi Biz! Your name is Biz! That's not usually a name!
The camera slowly pans away toward the computer as Jeanette falls onto Biz. Onscreen is a perfectly formatted webpage with the header "twttr." Zoom in to see the lead text; the sentence it rests on says "Blog by SMS." The camera further zooms in until SMS is the only word on the screen. That probably will be a big deal later.
Int. Odeo boardroom
A conveniently placed calendar on the wall shows the date to be March 21, 2006. Williams is looking at a page on his laptop as Stone and Dorsey look over either shoulder. Williams seems intrigued.
Get the fuck out of here. I don't want to hear your name again. You have nothing to do with this.
The set for the Odeo boardroom. The logo was to be added in post-production and the table re-used for later scenes in the Twitter boardroom.
Glass obliges. He has absolutely nothing to do with Twitter. Seriously.
This is extraordinary, guys. It requires absolutely no effort or writing talent, yet it still gives people the sense of an audience for their idiocy. I think it's safe to say that Odeo is out of the winter and into the spring.
I'm telling you guys, this is big. Really big. Get it up and running.
(getting his checkbook)
Here's five million dollars.
Dorsey walks away with check in hand pumping his fist. When everyone has left, Williams pulls out the bottle of rum again. Similar ominous music swells as the audience is once again reminded that Williams is an alcoholic. He again puts it back into its mysterious hiding place without opening the cap. He gets up triumphantly and walks away, the camera following him out. He walks past a door labeled "Server Room," through which Biz and Jack can be heard working. Time passes through a darkening of the screen, and the two emerge disheveled.
Is it all set?
Let me check.
"just setting up my twttr."
Dorsey checks a computer and lets out a whoop!
We did it, man! We invented twttr!
Yeah, uh, we did it.
It almost feels like we did no work at all, and I can tell we have a product that will be marketable. Why doesn't everyone do a tech startup?
It's time to put all my eggs into this basket.
(with clear reticence that for some reason is imperceptible to the others)
What follows is a montage depicting an orgiastic and generally very fun-looking night. Drink flows, sex is had, drugs are done. Life couldn't be more glamorous for these code monkeys. The scene ends on an outdoor shot of the moon in the sky. Blackout.
Int. Modern boardroom - morning
Everything from the beginning of act 1 is reversed. It's probably a very comfortable temperature in the room, and vibrant plants look almost fake, because they most likely are. Evan Williams, an older gentleman dressed in a suit and tie, is standing at the head of a boardroom table giving a presentation, pointer in hand, surrounded by a group of only attractive young people. Camera tilts to view the table, which says "Twitter" in blue letters; Williams points to these letters and speaks as the camera whips to face him.
This. This is it. In the past two years, we've gone from a startup to processing over 100 million tweets per day. South by Southwest brought us into the spotlight. We've grown beyond our wildest dreams. But now, as your new CEO, I want to tell you that we have more growing to do. We are not going to be "the new Facebook." No, we're gonna have companies trying to be "the new Twitter." We can't be stopped.
Dorsey is seated in the seat closest to Williams on the right; Stone is seated across from him. Dorsey is smiling like a gay idiot, while Stone seethes.
It's really amazing how the community took off!
Yeah, we had absolutely nothing planned and the community made it all up on the fly. Now we've got hashtags and retweets and it's growing every day.
We didn't even have to come up with a proper product and we made it happen.
No, I can hear. What I really mean is....what? You don't do shit around here except wear a spiffy suit, and you still make a fair amount of money. You used my money to make your idea into something extraordinary. In what way is that "stealing" your idea? And how was it even your idea? If this were Good Will Hunting, then you'd be Ben Affleck and Jack would be Matt Damon. So get out of here, Daredevil.
You know something, you're unbelievable. Truly unbelievable. You think you're so high and mighty, but you're not. You're not!
Stone storms out, leaving a baffled Williams behind. Ominous music starts playing, and he pulls out a bottle once again, vodka this time. He takes a swig, his sobriety apparently having had no effect on his suppressed gag reflex. He downs about a fifth before the scene cuts away, music gaining intensity. The camera whips to Stone stalking the hallway.
Hey, Biz, what's wrong?
Stone shoves him into a cubicle, knocking it over.
(apparently oblivious to the physical pain his cohort just received])
Biz, you alright?
Stone pushes him through a window, the glass shattering around him as he falls into the conference room behind. He reaches a door marked "JACK DORSEY, GENIUS" and slams it open. Dorsey is standing to the side, looking out a window. Stone walks up to his desk and angrily clears it of its contents.
What the hell?
I want out!
Fine, tender your resignation. See if I care. All it means is you won't siphon any more money away from a project you've had less to do with than Noah Glass.
Noah Glass had nothing to do with Twitter, though. Seriously.
You BASTARD! Fine, I'll stay. But I won't like it.
A conveniently placed calendar on the wall shows the date to be October 4, 2010. Williams is nowhere to be seen. Instead, another older gentleman is addressing the board. He seems exhausted.
Hello, my name is Dick Costolo. Mr. Williams had to step down for personal reasons, and is no longer with us day-to-day. Instead, I will be your new CEO. Now, you may be aware of some changes around here. Mr. Dorsey, money-hungry bastard that he is, is no longer with us. He is working on a new startup. And Mr. Stone, noble martyr, is now working at AOL on volunteer projects and philanthropy.
It makes me sick that Jack would just abandon us like that.
It's OK, we have a future. It's time for us to keep growing. Now, let's get started...
An unkempt and unshaven man walks into the boardroom, babbling. Upon further inspection, it is Evan Williams.
I'm sorry, Mr. Williams. Want to be Director of the Board and not do anything?
The camera pans behind Costolo to view Williams as he smiles. As he says the following, it zooms out.
The camera continues to zoom out, past the window, and ultimately to the street below. There we see Jack Dorsey standing, hands in pocket. His eyes show longing. His hand reaches upward to the window above, but it is out of reach. Credit music begins approximately five seconds before they start to roll.