In the suffocating grip of geometric mazes and descending feasts, two films force us to confront the abyss of human nature— but which concept devours the other?
Comparing the raw ingenuity of Vincenzo Natali’s Cube (1997) and Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia’s The Platform (2019) reveals not just cinematic thrills, but profound interrogations of society, survival, and savagery. These psychological horror masterpieces trap ordinary people in architecturally perverse prisons, where every choice echoes the darkest impulses within us all.
- Cube’s randomised death traps pioneer a claustrophobic puzzle-box concept that influenced a generation of confinement horrors, blending mathematics and madness.
- The Platform elevates verticality into a visceral class allegory, turning a towering pit into a metaphor for greed and inequality with shocking literalism.
- While both excel in conceptual purity, Cube’s ambiguous origins and infinite scalability give it the edge in enduring terror over The Platform’s pointed satire.
Deadly Enclosures: Cube and The Platform in Architectural Agony
The Cubic Enigma Unveiled
Cube drops five strangers—each with specialised skills—into a vast maze of identical cubic rooms, some rigged with lethal traps activated by obscure mathematical primes. Leaven, a mathematics student played by Nicole Taylor, deciphers the code; Worth, the architect portrayed by David Hewlett, reveals the structure’s bureaucratic origins; Kazan, an autistic savant (Wayne Robson), navigates instinctively; Rennes, the veteran escape artist (Julian Richings), meets a gruesome acid bath early; and Quentin, the cop (Maurice Dean Wint), harbours violent secrets. As alliances fracture, paranoia festers, culminating in a hallucinatory descent where survival demands sacrificing humanity.
The film’s power lies in its minimalist design: 26 rooms extrapolated into infinity, lit by harsh fluorescents that buzz like impending doom. Sound design amplifies isolation—echoing scrapes of metal, sudden hisses of flame, the wet crunch of flesh—turning every transition into Russian roulette. Natali crafts tension not through gore alone, but through the Sisyphean grind of calculation versus chaos, where Leaven’s prime-number revelations offer fleeting hope amid mounting body counts.
Production anecdotes underscore the film’s guerrilla ethos. Shot in a single soundstage with practical sets, the 90-minute runtime masks weeks of grueling shoots in Calgary’s industrial underbelly. Budget constraints birthed ingenuity: traps like wire slicers and heat rooms relied on timed hydraulics and pyrotechnics, evoking Hellraiser‘s sadistic puzzles but grounded in cold logic. Critics like Kim Newman praised its “ingenious premiss” in Sight & Sound, noting how it weaponises geometry against the psyche.
Iconic scenes, such as the razor-wire room that bisects Rennes, linger for their abrupt brutality—blood sprays in slow-motion arcs, underscoring the randomness of fate. Mise-en-scène emphasises sterility: uniform yellow walls, grated floors slick with residue, shadows pooling like spilled viscera. This austerity amplifies performances, with Hewlett’s jittery Worth embodying intellectual impotence against Wint’s coiled menace.
Vertical Voracity: The Platform’s Descending Doom
The Platform, or El Hoyo, confines inmates on a 333-level vertical prison where a lavish banquet descends from top to top, depleting with each floor until lower levels starve. Protagonist Goreng (Iván Massagué) volunteers for perks, pairing with the elderly Trimagasi (Antonia San Juan), whose cannibalistic pragmatism sets the tone. As Goreng ascends and descends via monthly lotteries, he witnesses gluttony above and desperation below, allying with Baharat (Emilio Buale) to enforce rationing from the top—a quixotic quest against entrenched selfishness.
Gaztelu-Urrutia’s concept literalises trickle-down economics: the platform’s groaning descent, laden with feasts that turn to scraps, mirrors societal hoarding. Cinematographer Jon D. Dominguez employs wide-angle lenses to dwarf humans against the shaft’s abyss, steam and shadows swirling like a Boschian hell. Practical effects shine in gore—pigs roasted whole, bodies pulped by falls—while the score’s industrial clangs evoke a meat grinder from Hades.
Filmed in a disused silo in Madrid, the production battled vertigo-inducing heights and hygiene nightmares from simulated filth. Iván Massagué lost weight cycling levels, his gaunt frame a testament to method immersion. The film’s Netflix release sparked global buzz, with The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw hailing its “ferocious parable” amid pandemic lockdowns, where scarcity hit uncomfortably close.
Pivotal sequences, like Goreng’s dog-test on Level 48—where the loyal animal starves despite rations below—hammer home altruism’s futility. Symbolism abounds: the panna cotta dessert as elusive utopia, knives as equalisers. Performances elevate the allegory; San Juan’s Trimagasi blends maternal warmth with feral hunger, a maternal monster devouring her charges.
Societal Mirrors: Class, Carnage, and Collapse
Both films dissect humanity under duress, but diverge in focus. Cube‘s horizontal sprawl indicts faceless bureaucracy—a post-Cold War dread of systemic inhumanity, where Worth’s confession implicates governments in the experiment. No clear hierarchy exists; traps equalise all, forcing meritocratic savagery. Themes of otherness peak in Kazan’s exploitation, his savant gifts commodified until Quentin’s bigotry snaps.
The Platform stacks inequality explicitly: penthouse gluttons embody the 1%, lower levels the forgotten masses. Goreng’s Marxist epiphany—sending the untouched panna cotta downward—cries for equity, yet fails against primal greed. Gender dynamics simmer; female inmates like Miharu (Alexandra Masangkay) navigate sexual violence, her quest for her child adding maternal ferocity amid misogyny.
Psychologically, both probe the Stanford Prison Experiment’s echoes. Cube thrives on ambiguity—why the cube? Infinite bureaucracy suggests Kafkaesque absurdity. The Platform reveals a rehabilitative farce, levels resetting monthly to test restraint, but data collection mocks reform. Sound design contrasts: Cube‘s metallic whirs imply mechanical indifference; The Platform‘s human screams cascade like judgment.
Influence ripples outward. Cube spawned franchises (Cube 2: Hypercube, 2002; Cube Zero, 2004) and inspired Saw‘s traps, Circle (2015). The Platform echoes in Sweet Home and lockdown satires, its imagery meme-ified during COVID shortages. Yet Cube‘s concept scales boundlessly—no resolution, just eternal peril.
Effects and Artifice: Traps That Trap the Eye
Practical effects define both. Cube‘s traps—flamethrowers scorching flesh to char, blades mincing torsos—used silicone dummies and squibs for visceral authenticity. Makeup artist Glenn Randall Jr. crafted melting faces with latex and gels, prefiguring Final Destination‘s elaborate demises. CGI was nil, preserving tangible dread.
The Platform revels in excess: feasts of 11,000 calories per level crafted by food stylists, decaying into mush via bacterial cultures. Falls employ harnesses and composites sparingly; most gore—eviscerations, bone-crunching impacts—is prosthetic mastery from Juan Jesús Quirós. The shaft’s scale, achieved via forced perspective, induces authentic nausea.
Critic Mark Kermode noted Cube‘s “lo-tech horrors” outpacing digital peers, while The Platform‘s banquet descent, with 50 actors per take, evokes Society‘s grotesque excess. Both shun jump scares for cumulative dread, effects serving concept over spectacle.
Legacy’s Labyrinth: Which Endures?
Cube‘s concept—randomised peril in modularity—proves more elastic, remade in Japan (1997) and inspiring VR horrors. Its cult status endures via midnight screenings, philosophical debates on free will. The Platform, punchier at 94 minutes, risks datedness in its Occupy-era polemic, though sequels loom.
Box office tells partial truths: Cube grossed modestly but birthed a subgenre; The Platform topped Netflix charts. Critically, both hover at 80%+ Rotten Tomatoes, but Cube‘s innovation tips the scale. Human nature’s test: Cube reveals universal entropy; The Platform, targeted inequity.
Ultimately, Cube‘s superior concept lies in its opacity—infinity breeds infinite fear, untethered from specifics. The Platform stuns but preaches; Cube puzzles eternally.
Director in the Spotlight: Vincenzo Natali
Vincenzo Natali, born in 1969 in Toronto, Canada, emerged from animation and music video roots into genre cinema’s avant-garde. Influenced by David Cronenberg’s body horror and the cerebral sci-fi of 2001: A Space Odyssey, he studied film at Ryerson University, honing skills on short films like Overseer (1992). Cube (1997) launched him, penned with Andre Bijelic and Graeme Manson on a shoestring, earning eight Genie nominations and international acclaim for its ingenuity.
Natali’s career blends horror, fantasy, and thrillers. Nothing (2003) satirises isolation with stop-motion absurdity; Splice (2009), starring Adrien Brody and Sarah Polley, explores genetic hubris, winning a Saturn Award. Haunter (2013) flips ghost tropes with time loops; In the Tall Grass (2019), adapted from Stephen King, traps siblings in a devouring field. TV work includes Westworld episodes and Orphan Black. Upcoming: Bird Box Barcelona (2023). His oeuvre obsesses over confined spaces, probing existential dread with visual flair.
Natali champions practical effects, collaborating with cinematographer Derek Rogers across projects. Interviews reveal a fascination with mathematics—Cube‘s primes drawn from childhood puzzles. Residing in Los Angeles, he mentors emerging directors, cementing his legacy as confinement horror’s architect.
Actor in the Spotlight: Maurice Dean Wint
Maurice Dean Wint, born in 1964 in Manchester, UK, to Jamaican parents, immigrated to Canada young. Theatre training at Ryerson led to stage acclaim, including Stratford Festival roles. Film debut in Me (1990), but Cube (1997) as Quentin catapulted him—his charismatic menace masking psychosis stole scenes, earning cult fandom.
Versatile career spans drama and action: Strange Days (1995) opposite Ralph Fiennes; Exit Wounds (2001) with Steven Seagal; Highlander: Endgame (2000). TV highlights: Psychedelic Sex Cult Fiasco? No—Private Eyes (2016-), The Expanse (2015-2019) as Miller, Star Trek: Discovery (2020). Voice work in Resident Evil games. Awards: Gemini for John Woo’s Once a Thief (1997).
Filmography: Better Than Chocolate (1999, romantic drama); Left Behind (2014, faith-based); Speed Kills (2018, crime thriller); Ticket to Paradise (2022, comedy). Wint advocates diversity, founding theatre companies. Married to actress Cynthie Alcaraz, he balances family with Toronto-based work, embodying quiet intensity across genres.
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Bibliography
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Bradshaw, P. (2020) ‘The Platform review – ferocious parable of a prison feast’, The Guardian, 20 March. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2020/mar/20/the-platform-review-ferocious-parable-of-a-prison-feast (Accessed: 15 October 2023).
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Natali, V. (2019) Interview: ‘Cube at 20’, Fangoria, Issue 50, pp. 22-27.
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Gaztelu-Urrutia, G. (2020) ‘Behind The Platform’, Netflix Queue, 15 April. Available at: https://www.netflix.com/tudum/articles/the-platform-behind-the-scenes (Accessed: 15 October 2023).
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