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Narcissistic leader José Mourinho out of touch with millennial footballers
Matthew Syed
The Manchester United manager’s cult of personality can’t cope in a landscape where no one person has all the answers
In 1997, four years before Enron went into liquidation, there was a detail in the company’s annual report that should have sounded the alarm. It was not in the text or analysis and it was not in the fictionalised financial data or balance sheet. Rather, it was contained in the photograph of Kenneth Lay, the company’s chairman.
With most annual reports the photo of the leader is of moderate size, typically a fifth of the page. Not the photo of Lay. His image took up the entire page, as did that of Jeffrey Skilling, the chief executive. That wasn’t just true in 1997 but in other years, where images of the two men dominated the reports. These leaders were not exactly self-effacing.
A few years after the collapse of the American energy company, Arijit Chatterjee and Donald Hambrick, two management professors, took a deeper look to see if the photo size of leaders in company reports contained clues about leadership style and culture. Sure enough, leaders who opted for super-sized shots were far more likely to use personal pronouns — “me”, “mine” and “myself” — when talking about the company rather than collective pronouns such as “we”, “ours” and “ourselves”.
When the researchers polled financial analysts, they found something else, too. When asked if company leaders had an “inflated sense of self that is reflected in feelings of superiority, entitlement and a constant need for attention . . . insisting upon being shown a great deal of respect, exhibition and arrogance”, the analysts’ ratings tallied directly with the size of the photographs.
Needless to say, this leadership style — let us call it narcissistic leadership — signals danger. Such leaders yearn to create the perception that they are the big cheeses, the stars around which the organisation orbits, the puppet masters who pull the strings. Little wonder that employees tend to feel alienated and undervalued, that it undermines a sense of collective endeavour and incubates other forms of dysfunctionality.
I was thinking about this in the context of José Mourinho’s 12-minute rant after Manchester United’s defeat by Seville in the Champions League last week. Much of the analysis has focused on the content of the monologue; on whether the claims were true or his criticisms valid. I thought it might be instructive to look not at the content, but at the pronouns. In the first few minutes alone, Mourinho made 25 references to “I”, “me” or “myself”. At that point, I stopped counting.
Veteran Mourinho watchers will not be surprised by this tally, for it is not as though we haven’t seen this before. The Portuguese often talks about his team in the first person, and credits success to his own genius-like insights, while blaming poor performances on the defects of his players (he did so again after the 2-0 win against Brighton & Hove Albion in their FA Cup quarter-final on Saturday), the referee, the ball boys et al. He has also extended the cast-list of blameworthiness to his predecessors.
The argument that United lacked “heritage” was another gambit to elevate himself by diminishing others. He had, he claimed, “inherited” poor players and was bequeathed a failing club. He said rather less about a net spend of about £250 million since arriving at United, or that he is responsible for improving the players.
In his mind, Mourinho is an island of light surrounded by darkness, a visionary general constantly let down by the troops.
Historically, narcissistic leadership was the dominant paradigm. Our species has long had a tendency to look to pharaohs, tribal elders and other exalted individuals, supposedly endowed with mystical gifts or talents, to lead us into an uncertain future. Narrative history has followed this paradigm with chronicles of kings and queens rather than the subjects whom they led, and of generals and admirals rather than the soldiers and sailors who did the fighting and spilt the blood.
The paradigm started to fracture somewhat with the invention of the modern novel as an art form in the 17th century, a point eloquently made by Howard Jacobson, the Booker Prize winner. Classics such as Don Quixote and, later, Oliver Twist, offered the then revolutionary idea that it is not just leaders who create history, but those who are led. Ordinary people doing extraordinary things. These works conveyed the idea that every life matters, every deed counts, every small action contributes to the totality of which the fabric of institutions and, indeed, societies are made.
Great leaders today embrace this conception of progress. They are confident, charismatic and make bold decisions, but they also create a sense of collective purpose. They do not elevate themselves directly, but by elevating those around them. As Vince Lombardi, the legendary former head coach of the Green Bay Packers, put it: “The challenge of every team is to build a feeling of oneness, of dependence upon one another. Because the question is usually not how well each person performs, but how well they work together.”
This conception is particularly important in today’s fast-changing world. The cult of personality, however brilliant the leader, can’t cope in a landscape where no one person has all the answers. We need effective teams, strong networks, collaborative solutions. The Narcissistic Leadership style is defunct. The photo of Lay, like the juvenile preening of Mourinho, are relics. They hint at oversized egos struggling to cope with the beautiful truth that leaders are but one pixel, albeit of profound significance, in the broader tapestry of modern organisations and societies.
It is not insignificant, I think, that millennials in particular find the Narcissistic Leader deeply uninspiring. Young people seem to have an intuitive understanding of the importance of the collective. This is certainly true of millennial footballers, who, unlike the cliché of thick, overpaid prima donnas, are literate, bright and hard-working. Just look at Eric Dier, multilingual and political; Juan Mata, who has completed distance learning courses in science and marketing; or Vincent Kompany, the eloquent Manchester City captain who studied for an MBA while winning multiple titles.
These players take seriously the idea that football is a game won and lost not by individuals but teams. They empathise with team-mates, not just in emotional terms, but in performance terms. They want to know how they can connect more effectively, unlock each other’s talents, find new ways to harmonise. They see football not as game for soloists but as an arena of sophisticated orchestration.
I often ponder how they react when they watch Mourinho trumpeting himself, the notes as braying as they are monotone. I suspect that they observe not with trepidation, but sadness. Sadness that this brilliant manager, so adept at tactical organisation, so rich in personality, so infused with charisma, has become a caricature. A manager who has won much, but who could, with deeper insights into human motivation, have created a dynasty. A man who, after short term success, tends to napalm the indigenous culture of his clubs before exiting angrily.
It is perhaps a little unfair to compare Mourinho with Lay and Skilling, two men who committed indictable offences, so it is worth emphasising that the comparison is only intended to encompass an aspect of their leadership styles. Indeed, I hope that Mourinho adapts his methods, for he still has much to offer the game he clearly loves. In the meantime, keep an eye out for those pronouns.
This week I’m reading . . .
Give and Take by Adam Grant
A book on social networks by the American psychologist Adam Grant. It was from here that I came across the research on the link between photograph size and leadership style.
Matthew Syed
The Manchester United manager’s cult of personality can’t cope in a landscape where no one person has all the answers
In 1997, four years before Enron went into liquidation, there was a detail in the company’s annual report that should have sounded the alarm. It was not in the text or analysis and it was not in the fictionalised financial data or balance sheet. Rather, it was contained in the photograph of Kenneth Lay, the company’s chairman.
With most annual reports the photo of the leader is of moderate size, typically a fifth of the page. Not the photo of Lay. His image took up the entire page, as did that of Jeffrey Skilling, the chief executive. That wasn’t just true in 1997 but in other years, where images of the two men dominated the reports. These leaders were not exactly self-effacing.
A few years after the collapse of the American energy company, Arijit Chatterjee and Donald Hambrick, two management professors, took a deeper look to see if the photo size of leaders in company reports contained clues about leadership style and culture. Sure enough, leaders who opted for super-sized shots were far more likely to use personal pronouns — “me”, “mine” and “myself” — when talking about the company rather than collective pronouns such as “we”, “ours” and “ourselves”.
When the researchers polled financial analysts, they found something else, too. When asked if company leaders had an “inflated sense of self that is reflected in feelings of superiority, entitlement and a constant need for attention . . . insisting upon being shown a great deal of respect, exhibition and arrogance”, the analysts’ ratings tallied directly with the size of the photographs.
Needless to say, this leadership style — let us call it narcissistic leadership — signals danger. Such leaders yearn to create the perception that they are the big cheeses, the stars around which the organisation orbits, the puppet masters who pull the strings. Little wonder that employees tend to feel alienated and undervalued, that it undermines a sense of collective endeavour and incubates other forms of dysfunctionality.
I was thinking about this in the context of José Mourinho’s 12-minute rant after Manchester United’s defeat by Seville in the Champions League last week. Much of the analysis has focused on the content of the monologue; on whether the claims were true or his criticisms valid. I thought it might be instructive to look not at the content, but at the pronouns. In the first few minutes alone, Mourinho made 25 references to “I”, “me” or “myself”. At that point, I stopped counting.
Veteran Mourinho watchers will not be surprised by this tally, for it is not as though we haven’t seen this before. The Portuguese often talks about his team in the first person, and credits success to his own genius-like insights, while blaming poor performances on the defects of his players (he did so again after the 2-0 win against Brighton & Hove Albion in their FA Cup quarter-final on Saturday), the referee, the ball boys et al. He has also extended the cast-list of blameworthiness to his predecessors.
The argument that United lacked “heritage” was another gambit to elevate himself by diminishing others. He had, he claimed, “inherited” poor players and was bequeathed a failing club. He said rather less about a net spend of about £250 million since arriving at United, or that he is responsible for improving the players.
In his mind, Mourinho is an island of light surrounded by darkness, a visionary general constantly let down by the troops.
Historically, narcissistic leadership was the dominant paradigm. Our species has long had a tendency to look to pharaohs, tribal elders and other exalted individuals, supposedly endowed with mystical gifts or talents, to lead us into an uncertain future. Narrative history has followed this paradigm with chronicles of kings and queens rather than the subjects whom they led, and of generals and admirals rather than the soldiers and sailors who did the fighting and spilt the blood.
The paradigm started to fracture somewhat with the invention of the modern novel as an art form in the 17th century, a point eloquently made by Howard Jacobson, the Booker Prize winner. Classics such as Don Quixote and, later, Oliver Twist, offered the then revolutionary idea that it is not just leaders who create history, but those who are led. Ordinary people doing extraordinary things. These works conveyed the idea that every life matters, every deed counts, every small action contributes to the totality of which the fabric of institutions and, indeed, societies are made.
Great leaders today embrace this conception of progress. They are confident, charismatic and make bold decisions, but they also create a sense of collective purpose. They do not elevate themselves directly, but by elevating those around them. As Vince Lombardi, the legendary former head coach of the Green Bay Packers, put it: “The challenge of every team is to build a feeling of oneness, of dependence upon one another. Because the question is usually not how well each person performs, but how well they work together.”
This conception is particularly important in today’s fast-changing world. The cult of personality, however brilliant the leader, can’t cope in a landscape where no one person has all the answers. We need effective teams, strong networks, collaborative solutions. The Narcissistic Leadership style is defunct. The photo of Lay, like the juvenile preening of Mourinho, are relics. They hint at oversized egos struggling to cope with the beautiful truth that leaders are but one pixel, albeit of profound significance, in the broader tapestry of modern organisations and societies.
It is not insignificant, I think, that millennials in particular find the Narcissistic Leader deeply uninspiring. Young people seem to have an intuitive understanding of the importance of the collective. This is certainly true of millennial footballers, who, unlike the cliché of thick, overpaid prima donnas, are literate, bright and hard-working. Just look at Eric Dier, multilingual and political; Juan Mata, who has completed distance learning courses in science and marketing; or Vincent Kompany, the eloquent Manchester City captain who studied for an MBA while winning multiple titles.
These players take seriously the idea that football is a game won and lost not by individuals but teams. They empathise with team-mates, not just in emotional terms, but in performance terms. They want to know how they can connect more effectively, unlock each other’s talents, find new ways to harmonise. They see football not as game for soloists but as an arena of sophisticated orchestration.
I often ponder how they react when they watch Mourinho trumpeting himself, the notes as braying as they are monotone. I suspect that they observe not with trepidation, but sadness. Sadness that this brilliant manager, so adept at tactical organisation, so rich in personality, so infused with charisma, has become a caricature. A manager who has won much, but who could, with deeper insights into human motivation, have created a dynasty. A man who, after short term success, tends to napalm the indigenous culture of his clubs before exiting angrily.
It is perhaps a little unfair to compare Mourinho with Lay and Skilling, two men who committed indictable offences, so it is worth emphasising that the comparison is only intended to encompass an aspect of their leadership styles. Indeed, I hope that Mourinho adapts his methods, for he still has much to offer the game he clearly loves. In the meantime, keep an eye out for those pronouns.
This week I’m reading . . .
Give and Take by Adam Grant
A book on social networks by the American psychologist Adam Grant. It was from here that I came across the research on the link between photograph size and leadership style.
