★★★★ (4 out of 4 stars) - A family of four live in a cramped and roach-infested banjiha, a semi-basement apartment in Seoul. They crib free Wi-Fi from unsuspecting neighbours and a nearby coffee shop, and their only source of income, procured by the mother Chung-sook via WhatsApp, comes from the folding of pizza boxes for a local delivery service, a task at which they are only moderately successful...
(4/4)
Director: Bong Joon-ho | Producers: Kwak Sin-ae, Moon Yang-kwon, Bong Yok-cho, Jang Young-hwan | Screenplay: Bong Joon-ho, Han Jin-won | Story: Bong Joon-ho | Starring: Song Kang-ho, Choi Woo-shik, Park So-dam, Jang Hye-jin, Lee Sun-kyun, Cho Yeo-jeong, Lee Jung-eun, Park Myung-hoon | Music: Jung Jae-il | Cinematography: Hong Kyung-pyo | Editor: Yang Jin-mo
A family of four live in a cramped and roach-infested banjiha, a semi-basement apartment in Seoul. They crib free Wi-Fi from unsuspecting neighbours and a nearby coffee shop, and their only source of income, procured by the mother Chung-sook via WhatsApp, comes from the folding of pizza boxes for a local delivery service, a task at which they are only moderately successful: their already meagre pay is docked when a quarter of the boxes turn out to be defective, with an accusatory glance towards the family’s father, Ki-taek. It seems that he used to throw hammer as an athlete, but now he’s something of a layabout. He allows fumigants into the apartment in a noxious attempt to cure the roach problem, and gathers the family round cheap beers to celebrate the ‘bounteous’ reconnection of their phones.
If the family has any hope, it seems to lie in the younger generation. The son Ki-woo has a college-educated friend who in quick succession bestows on the family three gifts: he interrupts a drunk who is about to piss against their window, he gives them courtesy of his own grandfather a scholar’s rock meant to augur material wealth, and he advises Ki-woo of a job opportunity, filling in as English tutor for the daughter of the wealthy Parks. Mustering his courage and with the help of his sister, Ki-jung, who proves a dab-hand at Photoshop, Ki-woo secures the tutoring position. Via elaborate schemes, disguising their identities and taking advantage of Mrs. Park’s credulous and skittish nature, soon the rest of the Kims infiltrate the affluent household of the Parks. Ki-jung becomes their son’s art therapist, Ki-taek takes over as chauffeur, and Chung-sook ousts their old housekeeper. More than merely keeping their heads above water, they seem set to live lavishly at the Park family’s expense. But just like Korean society at large, the Park household too contains levels and multitudes.
At the heart of Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite is a comedy of manners in the tradition of The Rules of the Game or Gosford Park, and at the midway point of the film it seems possible that it will continue in this fashion without necessarily losing any of its artistic balance or caustic bite. But Bong, a consummate watcher as well as a maker of films, tends to suffuse deft comedy and an inquisitive, empathetic approach to character with outré genre dynamics, and Parasite is no different. For all of their grace and carefully orchestrated momentum, in his films something always tugs at the edge of the frame. In Parasite floors shift and give way in a gushing motion, while the tone and colour of the picture is defined by gradated and mottled greys and an amber-tungsten glow.
The Seoul of Parasite is a realm of shifting surfaces and liminal spaces: the curved ascent up to the Park household, anodyne and lined with creeping plants, which seems to serve as a sort of portal between luxurious affluence and the lower class; the enclosed staircase which functions as the property’s oblique entranceway; the pantry, down from the kitchen, where the old housekeeper stores essentials and novelties including plum extract. The house is a model of sleek modernity yet in its own way ostentatious, its vast floor-to-ceiling china cabinet and sectional coffee table keeping the functional parts out of view. For all of its straight lines, its pristine work surfaces and manicured lawn, the house hides secrets and frays at the edges, increasingly apparent the more the Kims disrupt the flow. Back in their semi-basement apartment, the Kims crouch in the small space beside their raised toilet, groping for an internet connection, or seeking solace amid the flood wrought by a devastating rainstorm.
If the class politics of Parasite almost seem heavy-handed, they prevail because Bong is neither too critical nor too sentimental when it comes to picking sides. After all every family and every character in the film is a parasite in their own way. Of course the Kims and the old housekeeper Moon-gwang leech off the Parks’ wealth and resources, with the caveat that the Kims are aspirational, while Moon-gwang believes that by maintaining the strict social order she remains both closer to the Parks and somehow more justified in her theft. The Parks too depend utterly on their employees when it comes to practical and emotional matters. Mrs. Park feels hopelessly incapable of fulfilling any household role, and relies on her house staff to attain the status of wife and mother. Mr. Park at first seems amiable, but the increasing demands which he places on Ki-taek in particular reveal a crude class consciousness, while intimacy with his wife depends on smutty roleplay. The emotional life of the Parks’ daughter, Da-hye, seems to rest entirely on whoever happens to be her English tutor. The only outlier is the Parks’ son, Da-song, restless and creative even as he repurposes art styles and Native American regalia, and grapples with ghosts and his knowledge through scouting of Morse code.
As the black comedy of Parasite gives way through horror to tragedy, it is the father of the Kim family, Ki-taek, who provides the emotional centre. Played by Song Kang-ho as the latest act in an illustrious partnership with the director, Ki-taek is keenly aware of his role as the head of the household, and the odd smile and glimmer of life in his eyes suggest a schemer. In fact with his athletics career behind him, it turns out that he’s actually quite hapless: he cannot keep a job, and he wears both his own and his family’s disappointment. He can at least enact the schemes conceived by his son and daughter, keeping his excitability just about in check, and he rides the ensuing wave of success, but when things start to go awry, he is the least equipped to deal with the situation. His expression becomes one of stunned realisation. When a flood causes he and his kids to spend a night on the floor of a gymnasium, he enunciates his life philosophy, saying ‘With no plan, nothing can go wrong. And if something spins out of control, it doesn’t matter’. His act of violence at the climax of Parasite is at once the only moral and the most gratuitous act of violence in the film, a response to a karmic slight, borne of spiritual rather than physical necessity.
Parasite is a rare film that unabashedly embraces genre while sustaining a seamless consistency of style and accent. It twists and turns yet sticks its landings with balletic restraint. Each scene is a model of dynamism and control, cogs whirring sometimes quite literally beneath the surface, whether it’s Ki-taek leading Mrs. Park home from the supermarket, Ki-jung improvising her character of Jessica the art therapist, or twin families scurrying through the network of underground tunnels where control is overtly imposed through the surrounds. With an emphasis on character traits and relationship dynamics, and a spare score courtesy of the composer Jung Jae-il, the thrill of Parasite is at once rooted in sordidity and exquisitely wrought.
