The Informant, staring Matt Damon, or Name that Pathology

I had read of Mark Whitaker’s debacle with Archer Daniels Midland ten, fifteen, years ago in maybe the New Yorker? I had been fascinated and amused so looked forward to seeing the dramatization on screen.

I was not prepared for the “this is your life” experience that unfolded before me. At first I thought, "Wait a minute, this is familiar."

His story was good, believable. But then little things didn’t add up. What’s wrong here?

The main character, Mark Whitaker spins out lies and fabrications with the ease of water pouring from a jug. It became apparent that he was preoccupied with his interior life. At first I thought, “pathological liar.” Then, “He’s paranoid.” Then “to think it is to say it.”

At that point things became uncomfortably familiar. “This guy is like Ian. He can’t help himself. He even lies about his lies."

I began to feel sad and depressed. There it was before me. The charm, the manipulation, the grandiosity.

I have always struggled with my guilt, sadness, frustration trying to make Ian “like other people.” Wanting to shake him and say, “For once, just tell the truth.” I see the same frustration in the FBI handler. He always just gets more lies.

What is this syndrome? There are elements of autism, antisocial personality disorder, paranoia, secretiveness, and manipulation.

I left the theater sad and depressed. Ian was sick, from an early age. A lot of very good people tried to help him. No one really saw or understood the whole picture. It is a tribute to Matt Damon, a fine actor, that he could catch all the nuance and bring it before the audience. In the end how can we understand such complex mental illness? Poor Ian, he was his own worst enemy.