The opening scene of Jobs, the feeble biopic of the iconic Apple founder, is the one that keeps recurring throughout the film, with varying degrees of hagiographical worship, which is never less than lofty.
Steve Jobs, played by Ashton Kutcher, is hunched up and slightly exhausted as he walks into a room full of his Apple employees to introduce the iPod. As he delivers his visionary speech about how machines can touch people's hearts (and maybe wallets), everyone in the room gets up on their feet and starts to applaud. On cue, the camera is trained on their enraptured faces, and for a few seconds they look like subjects of a dictatorial country who unconditionally salute their master at a national parade.
There's no doubt about the real Jobs' genius, and there's no doubt that a film about his life, made only a few years after his death, is predestined to be an exercise in idolatry. But you have to question the plausibility, or rather the ridiculousness, of repeated occurences of employees applauding their own boss, in awe as if seeing God, sometimes almost in tears, as the boss is introducing a product that the people in the room surely know about, and perhaps even have worked on. Jobs' enthusiasm to enshrine Jobs is understandable, even justifiable, but the way the film goes about it is that of a fanboy erecting a statue of his hero, who becomes even more hallowed, saint-like or at least Einstein-like despite _ or actually because of _ his personal flaws.
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