Parasite

Korean filmmaking legend Bong Joon-Ho’s tendency for pairing the most unlikely of genre conventions would be the thing of nightmares in the hands of a less experienced filmmaker. But Joon-Ho’s mastery over the language of film, both visual and literary, have proven him to be capable of making even the most absurd combinations work. Parasite is the latest, and possibly greatest example of just how he utilizes these juxtaposing styles and tones to his advantage.

Parasite is a film best viewed as blind as possible. To preserve this notion, I will explain the premise as briefly as I can. Ki-Woo is a young man living with his sister and parents in a cramped apartment in the slums of South Korea. He is given an opportunity by a friend traveling abroad to fill in as an English tutor for the young daughter of a rich family. Ki-Woo accepts, and upon visiting the house and meeting the “simple” minded family devises a plan to get his entire family working in the house. 

With a concept such as this, the film is inherently rooted in issues of class, but the degree in which this film is explored is truly unlike anything else. These class-based issues permeate every aspect of the film’s design from the visuals to the writing. Joon-Ho has such a tight grip on the story that not a single scene or camera angle feels wasted, resulting in a film that operates on an almost robotic efficiency. 

There is a distinct duality to pretty much every aspect of the film’s construction, constantly emphasizing the double lives of the struggling family and the various aspects of high class and low-class living. The most prevalent motif that embodies this idea is the two windows that act as visual centerpieces for both the poor family and the rich family. The window of the rich home is large, facing the immaculate backyard, emphasizing the space available to them. The window of the poor family is half-submerged under the street they live on, reflecting their place in the world. It faces the dirty city street, acting as a monitor to their status, constantly subjecting them to stumbling drunks pissing on nearby buildings. This motif is then directly tied together during the rainstorm in the final act, where the rich window lovingly displays how the rain keeps their lawn watered, juxtaposed with how the rain is flooding the streets of the poor family.

All of this tension and subtlety explodes into one of the most bizarrely wonderful second halves of any film, throwing any prediction of where you thought the story was going out of the window. As stated before, this is where that “the less you know the better” sentiment becomes even more important, so my explanation will be brief. The second half of this movie manages to flip everything it was building on his head that doesn’t feel like a bizarre tonal shift, but the absurd inverse of everything the film was hinting at. South Korean directors have always had more twisted sensibilities when it comes to their filmmaking, from classics like Oldboy and I Saw the Devil, to the more forgotten films, such as the Wailing. Parasite is no different in that regard, taking all of these ideas and conflicts to their extremes in a way that manages to feel organic and believable.

Parasite, in many ways, is a bizarre juggling act that shouldn’t work on paper. It is a cinematic roller coaster in every sense of the word, and I urge you to go in as blind as you can. It will undoubtedly start to pick up more steam as awards season draws near, but this is one of those very few cases where the hype should be believed. Let’s just hope this finally ends the shunning of South Korean cinema that the Academy Awards have been silently partaking in for the past twenty years.