Herman Mankiewicz seemed to have a witty, scathing rejoinder for every situation. What David Fincher’s Mank emphasizes is how little they mattered.

The titular Mank (Gary Oldman) is our sympathetic protagonist: an intelligent, progressive screenwriter, caught up in the Hollywood system, mocking the cash grabs around him while also grabbing as much as he can. He supports Upton Sinclair in his 1934 campaign for California governor; he goes to great lengths to explain the difference between socialism and communism to snooty folks at dinner parties.

He’s also the definition of a limousine liberal. He means well and he’ll tell truth to power, especially when drunk and even in the presence of titans like William Randolph Hearst. But when asked to help grow the fledgling Screen Writers Guild, he instead makes a dismissive comment about the name’s lack of apostrophe. He continues to work for a man he loathes in MGM boss Louis Mayer (Arliss Howard), even showing up to Mayer’s gubernatorial victory party in what seems like an act of self-flagellation. He’d rather hover near the people in charge and critique their failings than push back in any real way.

And that’s what makes Mank more than just a behind-the-scenes look at who is responsible for Citizen Kane. On paper, it’s a classic old-Hollywood story that critics always gush over: a commentary on a top-heavy, money-grubbing business that’s only gotten worse over the last 80 years. But it’s also a reminder that soulless bullshitters and political manipulators are not unique to the late 2010s, and that cleverly noting their hypocrisy only goes so far.

Mank’s greatest rebellion is penning Kane, one of the finest films of all time and a stinging rebuke of Hearst that the millionaire pushed back on with much of his might. It’s a genuine victory, and Fincher — working from a script by his late father Jack — paints a classic picture of a flawed man who deserves this rare win. But Mank wouldn’t have had the access he needed to write his screenplay without a decade spent by the side of Hearst (Charles Dance) and his mistress Marion Davies (Amanda Seyfried), years that kept him not only entertained but gainfully employed.

Even more so, Fincher subtly — and smartly — implies that the takedown may be fueled by simmering jealousy as much as anything; Hearst barely acknowledges Marion, while Mank clearly adores her. In doing so, the director ties grand gestures to personal proclivities: Mank writes Kane for Orson Welles (Tom Burke) as the final gasp of a waning career, all the while deflecting how Davies clearly inspired the character Susan Alexander. Davies herself refuses to ask Mayer to dump a series of fake newsreels because she’s already made her grand exit from the studio. And Mayer seems to be backing Sinclair’s challenger Frank Merriam out of stubborn, rich-guy necessity; we never even meet the eventual winner.

There is rarely a grand puppet master pulling the strings. Instead, there are vengeful superiors, blind-eye-turning associates, and begrudgingly willing underlings. Occasionally, there is a Hearst, but even he isn’t directly manipulating so much as casting his watchful eye over everything and quietly intimidating most of the world into compliance. Such a man has use for a Mank; someone to note his failings in a harmless, playful manner and maybe even make wary colleagues feel like justice is somewhat being served.

It’s not, of course. Getting drunk and telling your boss how and why he sucks won’t fix anything. Writing a classic screenplay might not either, but it’s a start, though it may kill you — professionally and literally — in the process. Mank tries to grapple with all of this, which makes it more than a worthy companion piece to Welles’ (and Mankiewicz’s) timeless classic.