'Parasite' - history, reality or art?

By David Tizzard

While K-pop acts BTS and Black Pink have been hitting the headlines for their international commercial success and online fandom in 2019, one of hallyu's most important sectors has often gone under-recognized in domestic Korean society. And yet the soft-power wave crashing on foreign shores and leaving an indelible mark is not arriving to the tune of a catchy choreographed innocent electronic dance beat.

It is far more mature, risque, and provocative than that. Moreover, it is willing to speak its mind and turn its lens on a society that is both thriving and suffering in equal measure as the 21st century lurches forward, marked by exponential technological advancements and disparity at the political, economic, and social levels.

Korean cinema is the opposite of K-pop in many ways: it enjoys great critical success abroad, its main practitioners are willing to voice their opinions on many subjects without too much fear of Twitter reprisals, and it doesn't seek to present the land of the morning calm as an air-brushed, complexion perfect, dancing marionette. It knows all too well that something lurks beneath.

Park Chan-wook has earned a lofty global reputation for his challenging and thought-provoking films and serious movie discussions in any country will see his name raised at every opportunity. Nevertheless, many here do not see him as part of a cultural tsunami raising the profile of Koreans on the international stage.

Perhaps this is because auteurs such as Park bring with them their own idiosyncratic views, opinions, and outspoken statements on society and history. In a discussion of his remake of the thrilling novel The Fingersmith, Park speaks openly on Japanese colonialism and its presence in his movie “The Handmaiden.”

Park says unflinchingly, “Modernism was something that was forcibly implanted on the Korean soil by the imperial Japanese. And all the western culture in western civilization, such as scientific discoveries and advancements in technology, made their way into Korea via Japan.”

The directors of Korean cinema have a confidence in their opinions that seems to rise above the tide of public sentiment and sediment. In contrast to their musical counterparts, the rules of acceptable conversation seem to be rather different.

And Park's contemporary Bong Joon-ho is no stranger himself to depicting a Korean society without a heavily photoshopped historical or cultural lens. His 2013 movie “Snowpiercer” presented a society divided harshly into various economic classes, while two years ago “Okja” took pointed aim at environmental problems.

His latest work, “Parasite,” looks at what lurks beneath society ready to emerge and scare those living here when confronted with an ugly, murderous, and dirty truth from its history. And in doing so, he has become the first Korean director to win the Palme d'Or ― widely considered the world's most prestigious award in the film industry.

President Moon Jae-in took to Twitter to praise Bong for his achievements saying, “This year marks the 100th anniversary of Korean cinema. The palm tree leaves that were delivered to us early this morning are a meaningful gift to all the filmmakers and the Korean people who have loved the film as a high-quality audience.” Interestingly, in case you did not know, Korean Cinema began in 1919.

There will now be some spoilers for “Parasite,” so if you haven't seen the film get yourself down to your local cinema, order your popcorn and drinks through a computer ― because the large conglomerates use machines rather than humans to fight rising wages ― and see the movie: it is phenomenal.

The movie itself centers on a luxurious modern house, filled with all the latest mod-cons and utilities. This can be seen as representing South Korea in the 21st century as it stands proud above even many of its western counterparts with its marvelous transport, infrastructure, hospitals, medical services, and the world's best internet speeds.

But, just like Korea, the house has a hidden cellar. Secrets slumber in the depths, unbeknown to many and hidden behind the promotion of harmless traditional Korean drinks such as plum juice.

Nevertheless, down there in the shadows resides a patriotic and bloody history that is waiting to reveal itself and scare the current inhabitants. Some have briefly seen what lies beneath but it has caused trauma to those that have and forced them into a stunned silence.

Thus there is the resorting to sending secret messages in society, hoping that they will not be observed by the inattentive, smartphone-addicted population, but caught and understood by those willing to gaze into the abyss of history.

These messages sent up from the past contain a message of respect, admiration, regret, love, and ultimately a plea for help. They look wistfully on their own actions and circumstances that have caused them to live in isolation away from their contemporaries above ground.

Of course, such a depiction should immediately bring to mind H.G. Wells' appropriately-dated 1895 “Time Machine” and the social chasm created between the childlike Eloi and the downtrodden Morlocks.

In Wells' past depiction of the future, a conundrum is created just as it is here in Bong's movie. Who does one cheer for? Who are the good guys and bad guys? Or are they all seemingly each other's salvation and prisoner at the same time?

If the house in “Parasite” is to be seen as a metaphor for Korean society, which Song Kang-ho has suggested Bong's films generally are, three main groups are vying for control. Three vastly different ― yet seemingly interconnected ― clans who all want the keys to the palace ― or at least to live comfortably in its surroundings.

First are the rich. In the film, they have money, wealth, taste, and friends. They respect those with high-class university degrees unfailingly. They are fascinated by international culture and speaking English. Yet they are often helpless and naive to the ways of the world. And, worryingly, they have an aversion to the smell of the lower class.

The lower class live a rather pitiable existence in “Parasite” ― beaten down by the rich and sent to live in torrid conditions while gentrification takes place all around them.

While at first these families might seem homely, one soon realizes that the struggle for survival will bring out the worst in mankind. Hobbesian conditions will lead them to commit criminal acts such as deception, theft, fraud, and even murder should it mean that their family can rise above the sewage that threatens to drown them.

And finally, for Bong, there are those waiting to emerge from the shadows. Those that scream “respect”. Those with an eye on lineage and rewriting history. They have blood on their hands but still there remains a human in them. And that human could well be us if we are not careful.

In Bong's movie, a white foreigner eventually takes control of the house. But the Koreans dream that one day they will return. They will take back control. And then, they will release the murderers from the basement and allow them to return, forgiven, to society.

You just do not really get any of that stuff in a pop song, do you?

So bravo to Bong Joon-ho and all those that contributed to “Parasite.” In a year of spandex-clad Avengers, it truly is a class apart from most other movies. And here's to Korean cinema's next 100 years.

David Tizzard (datizzard@swu.ac.kr) is an assistant professor at Seoul Women's University.