“Why can’t people who hit millions of other people be as famous as A-list celebrities?” The question, prompted by Thomas Petrou, is one of the opening lines in Netflix’s new hit reality TV show The Hype House—a series about a group of teenagers from across America who find fame dancing in TikTok videos and decide to room together in a multi-million dollar mansion in Los Angeles.
In addition to being one of the first lines of the show, Petrou’s words have become, arguably, some of the most—and potentially only—memorable lines from the show, with his statement skyrocketing in comedic glory among the likes of everyday TikTokers and movie-commentary-king, Alex Meyers.
Really, Petrou’s question at the start of The Hype House posits several revelatory points about the important and ever-evolving reality of the global social media and entertainment landscape, and particularly, the status that the term “influencer” has been given in our society.
The fervent weight trainer, the outgoing teenage girl, and the Type-A stellar student are all archetypes of internet personalities that Petrou describes as “people who hit millions of other people.” Typically speaking, they’re defined as “influencers”: individuals who have the power to affect people’s purchases via a social media platform. This definition of an influencer, however, is disproven by the very notion of equating these people with the world’s most famous entertainers. Celebrities’ reach fundamentally extends beyond economic influence and ventures into the territory of personhood. If influencers are likened to celebrities, that would mean they can not only influence what people buy but, ultimately, how they want to be.
Tiffany Ferg, in her internet analysis video “You’re Not Relatable Anymore,” explains this crux of influencer-dom that sets influencers apart from celebrities and pushes them beyond the boundaries of mere social media marketers: relatability. The fervent weight trainer, the outgoing teenage girl, the Type-A stellar student are all followed by virtue of the fact that they’re ordinary; they could be a person you run into at the gym, hang out with at the movies, or study with at school. They understand the mechanics of daily life for the average human being while simultaneously presenting a specific facet of their life on the internet that viewers may want to embody themselves.
This perceived intimacy with influencers and expectation of authenticity is, in part, what seems to shape the public reaction towards influencers that is experienced by Petrou. Snarking on a lack of talent, condemning the existence of his platform given his alleged involvement in sexual assault, and vows to never watch another season of the show all highlight a new trend in the economics of attention: society just can’t stomach influencers like it used to anymore.
Out of a perceived sense of insincerity came the development of a new phenomenon: snarking. Also known as social media commentary, snarking refers to the practice of using social media platforms to comment on other creators, organizations, content or aspects of social media. Under the climate of 2020, a year of further politicization given lockdowns, vaccines, and social justice movements such as Black Lives Matter and Stop Asian Hate, the practice of social media commentary flourished as people worked to hold influencers accountable for perceived misdoings. Commentary videos by creators such as Amandabb, Drew Gooden, and Smokey Glow compounded millions of views and brought in hundreds of thousands of subscribers. Snarking expanded outside of YouTube, Twitter, and TikTok onto less moderated platforms such as Reddit and Discord. People became especially passionate about their beliefs amidst the solitude and inoccupancy of lockdown, using social media as an outlet to find solidarity in their views online. A fractured trust in influencers—who viewers initially regarded as akin to their friends—led these figures to become primary targets of the practice, particularly with regard to polarizing issues.
The decline of the influencer was further exacerbated by the pandemic. Buying what influencers were selling lost some of its appeal with the onslaught of a global lockdown. According to research cited by Forbes Magazine, 2020 saw a drop in influencer engagement rates from 2019, as well as fewer brand deals and sponsored Instagram posts by partnering companies. While many influencers still had the platforms to market products and encourage sales during the lockdown, consumers, on the flipside, experienced hardships such as unemployment, which affected their abilities to purchase said items. The continued job activity of some influencers in pushing products, despite the glaring change in the lives of their followers, led to the development of hostility towards influencers.
All that said, the culture of influencers and being influenced has yet to fade away completely. Just as before, social media users are still seeking inspiration from authentic content creators. But now, who these creators are and how they operate looks a little different. In some ways, an audience-driven desire for sincerity has meant a dismantling of boundaries; users who share multiple unfiltered facets of their life as part of their brand are being initiated into a new generation of influencers. Those who don’t try to influence viewers and rather adopt the attitude of sharing their lives with them on social media (inhabiting the realm of “casual Instagram”) such as Charli D’Amelio, have risen in popularity. Still, the unsettling truth remains that regardless of how much is shared, a person cannot be fully known over social media.
