Friendship: A Critique on Parasocial Relationships in the 21st Century

For so long, the lives celebrities lived seemed foreign to the public—glamorous and mysterious. But once social media rolled around, it not only peeled back the curtain; it warped our perspective—showing us that they are, in fact, normal people. This shift has encouraged the public to emulate their immaculate and unrealistic lifestyles, driven people to want constant life updates, and opened the door to a surprisingly old phenomenon: one-way friendships. In many ways, the movie Friendship seeks to explore the harmful effects of these parasocial relationships and how the entitlement to access can become extremely problematic.

The term parasocial relationship was first coined in 1958 during the rise of late-night talk shows. Before this, celebrities were distant, almost mythical figures—seen only on the silver screen or in paparazzi shots. Late-night TV changed that dynamic. Suddenly, celebrities weren’t just in theaters; they were in our living rooms, speaking directly to us in a casual, intimate tone. Research shows why this felt so personal: screen size can mimic the spatial cues of real-life interaction (Lombard, 1995), and direct eye contact or fourth-wall breaks create the illusion of a face-to-face connection (Auter, 1992; Hartmann & Goldhoorn, 2011). These small details gave audiences a sense that they truly ‘knew’ the hosts and guests—an early blueprint for parasocial intimacy. This illusion of intimacy was powerful enough that, by the 1980s, researchers found loneliness played a key role in forming these bonds. A 1985 study revealed that the lonelier people felt, the more they relied on TV personalities for a sense of connection and companionship.

That was back when the screen was across the room. Today, these relationships have intensified. Instead of nightly talk shows, we now consume celebrity and influencer content through the same devices we use to talk to real friends—our phones—collapsing the psychological distance even further. Now they don’t just talk at us, they talk with us through comments, livestreams, and posts. This backdrop makes Friendship so compelling: Paul Rudd’s character, a charismatic TV host, echoes the very origins of parasocial bonding. But the film pushes this concept to the extreme, showing how intimacy—whether real or manufactured—can spiral into entitlement and obsession.

Influencers often live lavish, celebrity-like lives—but claim they are still “just like us.” They overshare, showing the public everything: morning routines, schedules, home renovations. This passing of intimate knowledge—details you’d typically learn from close friends—fools the public into thinking they are friends with them too. But these “friends” just happen to buy new wardrobes monthly and make $100,000 for a single product plug. As with real friends, we value their advice and try to emulate their lifestyles. When they recommend products, we want them. When they post outfits, we buy them. These false connections drive a lonely cultural warp, leading everyone to dress like Hailey Bieber, form unrealistic spending habits to keep up with the Kardashians, and believe they are maintaining real connections with available people they have never met.

We now expect this constant access because our actual friends post updates to keep us in the loop—so when celebrities do the same, we assume they’re doing it for the same reason. If my friend shares life updates because we’re close, then surely this influencer does too. Therefore, they must be my friend. These are one-way friendships, fueled by curated glimpses we’ve been trained to think are normal. When this access is cut off, the public feels betrayed.

In May 2025, lifestyle and mommy influencer Emille suddenly went dark. Her followers were furious. Where had she gone? She normally updated them multiple times a day with every move. They dug for answers and pieced together—through local news, police records, and her absence—that her child had drowned in the family pool. Instead of offering sympathy, they attacked her for “ghosting” them. This false sense of entitlement is horrific—but predictable. Emille trained her audience to expect intimate updates, to feel like friends. When she broke that illusion, they lashed out.

Parasocial relationships often form because people believe the person they admire is “just like them”—or represents who they want to be. This creates an emotional investment. When that person succeeds, it feels like we succeed. When they fail, the disappointment feels personal. It’s why so many fans turned on John Mulaney when news of his divorce and affair surfaced. For years, his stand-up featured intimate details about his wife and their marriage. Fans projected their own ideals onto them—“Their relationship is like mine” or “That’s the relationship I want.” When it fell apart, it didn’t just feel like his failure—it felt like ours.

Friendship, with Tim Robinson and Paul Rudd, is an excellent metaphor for the abnormality we’ve normalized around one-way relationships—our belief that knowing fragments of someone’s life means knowing them entirely. Robinson’s line—“You can’t let me into the group so fast!”—echoes a larger question: Should influencers stop granting so much access? By oversharing, they train us to feel entitled to their private lives forever, even when they no longer want to share.

In the movie, Robinson and Rudd’s friendship is shallow, based on a few curated hangouts. Rudd’s character performs a version of himself—mysterious, cool, quirky—by showing fake artifacts and claiming he doesn’t own a phone (a lie revealed later). We eventually learn much of his persona is fabricated, from his fake hair to his hypocrisy when he calls cops “pigs” but then happily poses with them. Rudd’s curated experiences mirror those of an influencer’s curated setups and meticulously designed backgrounds. Not only is it not real, but he is withholding real details of his life and controlling access to what he chooses, such as his true friends.

The film highlights the growing loneliness epidemic—especially among adult men—and how, despite being “more connected than ever” through social media, we are increasingly isolated. Robinson’s desperation for companionship drives him to cling to Rudd’s character long after the cracks in his persona are obvious. This vulnerability isn’t random: research shows that lonely individuals are more likely to form parasocial relationships, the same dynamic first observed with news anchors—Rudd’s fictional profession. The film underscores Robinson’s isolation through subtle cues: his wife urging him to make friends, her odd relationship with their son, and hints of a possible affair.

After forming this one-sided bond, Robinson moves into the next phase: emulation. He tries to recreate Rudd’s mysterious tunnel adventure for his wife—a decision that spirals into a manhunt. While exaggerated for comedic effect, this serves as a sharp metaphor for real life: what happens when people try to live by the curated fantasy influencers and celebrities present? An influencer might have drawers of makeup used once or the luxury to work out twice a day and prepare four elaborate meals, but someone with a 9-to-5 job cannot. These illusions set us up for failure because the lifestyle itself is fabricated. And when the curtain lifts and reality doesn’t match the fantasy, fans often feel betrayed—and react with anger.

That brings us to the final stage of a parasocial relationship: betrayal. Robinson can’t understand why his “friendship” falls apart. He built both Rudd and their relationship into something far greater than reality. Just as fans lash out at celebrities when their illusions crumble, Robinson lashes out—breaking into Rudd’s home and trashing his car. Yet who benefits in the end? Rudd does, when Robinson keeps his secret about his fake hair—just as influencers ultimately benefit from the attention, engagement, and ad revenue their curated personas generate.

Friendship isn’t just a title—it’s a question: What does friendship really mean in an era where illusions feel like intimacy? The film satirizes the parasocial dynamics we’ve normalized and warns against the false sense of closeness we manufacture online. It’s a wake-up call to end these one-sided relationships built on curated lies. Unfollow the influencers and celebrities. Invest in real connections. Because true intimacy can’t be streamed, posted, or bought—it has to be lived.