The Mandate focuses on topics that men don’t like to talk about. It’s written by Olympic Medalist and frequent Men’s Health contributor Jason Rogers. If you were forwarded this email, subscribe below.
According to PewDiePie, a pseudo-godfather of modern internet culture, one should always start an apology video with a deep sigh. The ironic advice was offered in a 2018 video during which the Swede roasts a handful of cringe-worthy YouTuber apologies (including one of his own). So, it was perhaps an inauspicious omen that Will Smith began his Oscars apology video in the same fashion. Before you see Smith in the frame, you hear a labored gush of air as the text on the screen informs you that he will be answering some “fair questions” about the incident and that his multi-month delay was due to the need for “thinking and personal work.”
Then, Smith enters and settles onto a cream canvas chair. During this establishing shot, the actor is viewed in profile, and the camera steadies long enough to capture a clear view of a framed drawing that reads, “The World Is Sick, Love is the Cure.” With its designer lighting, attractive foliage, and an array of art books, the room gives off the warm, inviting air of someone’s home. However, if you look closely at the grey, concrete-like panels that line the background of the space, you can make out long, linear breakpoints, suggesting that the room is a set, and the walls can be separated and rolled away.
“Why didn’t you apologize to Chris in your acceptance speech?” Smith begins, his eyes directed off camera, presumably at a cue card. His tone is strangely stilted and sounds almost alien coming from a man whom we are accustomed to seeing perennially at ease. The halting rhythm bears just a hint of the resistance a schoolboy might exude if forced to stand in front of the class and read aloud from an assignment chapter that he neglected to complete at home. “I was fogged out at that point,” he says. “It’s all fuzzy.” The answer feels at once like an honest account and a lie of omission, begging an obvious follow-up question: Are you sure you didn’t say “I’m sorry” because you were still mad?
In the remaining five minutes Smith tackles two additional softball inquiries. After Jada rolled her eyes, did she tell you to do something? (No). What would you say to the people who looked up to you before the slap or the people who expressed that you let them down? (It hurts). Of course, Smith elaborates on each answer, taking full responsibility for his actions, noting that there is no part of him that thinks that striking Rock was an “optimal” way to act. However, when addressing the comedian directly, his phrasing is unwieldy: “I will say to you, Chris, I apologize to you.” To his wife, he chooses softer words that roll off his tongue: “I’m sorry, babe.”
Plato famously penned the Apology of Socrates, a text which served as a posthumous defense of his philosophical teacher who was put to death (by forced suicide) in 399 B.C. It was one of many “apologia” which offered impassioned legal, philosophical, or theological rebuttals on behalf of a people, ideologies, or acts. Of course, today, the word no longer connotes combativeness. However, this is what Smith’s apology actually felt like. His pronunciation of the words “I apologize” was elongated and almost wincing, making him seem like a man caught between his true feelings and an external act he felt forced to perform.
Public apologies are, by nature, a deeply fraught act because they aren't really for the victim. They are for the collective Us — the fans, the constituents, the media, the “mob.” Our outrage is often couched in terms of the need for accountability. However, the primary reason we rage tweet isn’t the moral offense itself. We dust off our pitchforks when we feel personal, emotional injury. When a public figure like Will Smith acts in a way that is out of step with the person we expect him to be — the man with a seemingly unlimited supply of goodwill and charm — we feel duped. We think: You made me feel stupid for trusting you with my affection; you better make this right.
This is partly why public apologies are often perceived as unsuccessful or insincere. The public figure focuses primarily on addressing accusations of impropriety and, consequently, skews towards justifying the behavior or performing contrition with a kind of weepy earnestness that often feels fake. Smith subtly alights on both of these notes. He never defends his acts overtly, but he does say that his efforts to personally connect with Rock had been rebuffed (he’s not ready to talk), a kind of rhetorical judo move that makes the audience question whether Rock is being unreasonable in his hesitancy to forgive. Smith also uses highly therapized language like “disappointing people is my central trauma” to signal that he’s not your typical emotionally shut down man. He’s the post-Brené Brown version, the kind that will go to excruciating lengths to flip the incident into a moment of personal growth.
And don’t get me wrong, I’m the first to praise men for their vulnerability. However, distorting the aura of authenticity around Smith’s words is the elephant in the room (or on the set): the actor’s reputational empire depends on the moment being effective. At the start of the video, you can hear the chatter of the many people standing behind the cameras, a group that no doubt comprises numerous career whisperers who have a vested interest in the preservation of Smith’s business and brand. Their fingerprints are all over the video — the set’s cozy aesthetics, the product placement, the strategic messaging about “love” on the wall. Smith is no doubt his own man, but in a situation like this, it’s hard not to imagine him as a marionette. He can exert some personal agency within the situation, but only within boundaries that are strictly controlled.
For me personally, it was not the bizarre commercial undertone, months-long silence, or even the attenuated presentation style that made the video fall flat. We are living in a moment that celebrates vulnerability but is starved of transparency. And I think Smith could be more effective at restoring our trust if he focused on being brutally honest about the inner workings of the moment rather than the theatre of remorse. For example, Smith could have said: Nobody wants to make this right more than I do. But I am in a unique position, and there are so many external pressures on me that I’m terrified I won’t be able to apologize in the right way. I’m doing everything I can to own this and speak from the heart, but I’m not above those influences and my own self-serving instincts. I am deeply sorry, but I also have to be.