Vertical Hunger: Clash of the Classes in The Platform and Parasite

In a world devouring itself, two 2019 masterpieces pit starvation against infiltration, revealing the monstrous face of inequality.

Two films from 2019 stand as brutal mirrors to societal fractures: The Platform, a Spanish descent into a cannibalistic tower, and Parasite, a South Korean infiltration of bourgeois bliss turned bloody. Both weaponise confined spaces to dissect class warfare, blending horror with thriller precision to expose how the powerful feast while the desperate starve.

  • Exploring parallel dystopias where vertical and horizontal divides fuel human depravity.
  • Unpacking metaphors of consumption, from literal flesh-eating to parasitic invasion.
  • Contrasting directorial visions that elevate social critique into visceral terror.

The Tower of Ravenous Desks

In The Platform, directed by Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia, a towering prison called Platform One operates on a single, savage rule: a lavish banquet descends from the top level each month, gorged by the elite above before scraps reach the depths. Protagonist Goreng (Ivan Massagué) arrives on level 48, soon plummeting to the famished lower strata where survival demands unthinkable acts. The film’s narrative spirals through cycles of abundance and famine, punctuated by grotesque encounters—prisoners gnawing on frozen limbs, hallucinatory pacts, and a final ascent pregnant with futile hope. This vertical microcosm literalises inequality, each floor a rung in a ladder soaked in blood and bile.

The structure compels viewers into Goreng’s plummeting perspective, mirroring the platform’s inexorable drop. Early scenes establish the rhythm: opulent feasts devolved into carnage as trays scrape past ravenous hands. A pivotal sequence sees Goreng and his cellmate Baharat (Emilio Buale) plotting revolution from the pit, their improbable alliance forging a fragile ethic amid barbarity. Gaztelu-Urrutia’s script, co-written with David Desola, draws from Dante’s infernal circles and Cube‘s traps, yet innovates with edible allegory—pannacotta messages smeared in excrement underscore failed communication across divides.

Contrast this with Parasite‘s sprawling Park household, where Bong Joon-ho masterfully escalates from comedy to carnage. The Kim family, basement-dwellers scraping by on gig economy fumes, infiltrates the lives of the wealthy Parks via forged credentials. Ki-taek (Song Kang-ho) evolves from chauffer to patriarch-in-peril, his arc culminating in a rain-lashed basement flood that drowns their illusions. The film’s basement reveals—first the Kims’ squalor, then the hidden bunker—horizontalise horror, burrowing under manicured lawns to unearth buried resentments.

Bong’s narrative pivots on the infamous peach allergy scene, where scoutmaster blood spatters the pristine tablecloth, blending slapstick with slaughter. Unlike The Platform‘s abstract prison, Parasite roots class war in hyper-specific Korean realities: folded pizza boxes symbolise poverty, while the Parks’ oblivious stench complaints ignite fury. Both films climax in basements of reckoning, but where Goreng wields a chef’s knife for moral suasion, Ki-taek’s rampage stems from paternal desperation, stabbing upward through floorboards.

Feasting on the Fault Lines

Class cannibalism pulses at both hearts. The Platform makes it corporeal: upper levels devour not just food but bodies tossed downward, a stark metaphor for trickle-down economics gone carnivorous. Goreng’s journey embodies upward mobility’s perils—each descent strips illusions, forcing confrontation with the system’s architects. The film’s lone female prisoner, Miharu (Antonia San Juan), navigates maternally, her quest humanising the tower’s inhumanity, yet even she succumbs to the grind.

Parasite internalises predation: the Kims as parasites burrowing into host flesh, only to face the original basement dweller’s vengeful return. Bong layers irony—the Parks praise the Kims’ “clean” smell, blind to their odour of destitution. This olfactory warfare extends to rain: a deluge blessing the rich ruins the poor, flooding Ki-woo’s stone under the table in a shot evoking drowned dreams. Both films indict passivity; Platform One’s monthly reset mocks reform, while the Parks’ Sunday outings ignore the rot below.

Psychological descent defines their thriller bones. In The Platform, isolation breeds madness—Goreng’s Don Quixote tome becomes sanity’s tether, its chivalric delusions clashing with pragmatic cannibalism. Sound design amplifies dread: clanging trays echo like guillotines, distant screams a cacophony of the damned. Parasite thrives on spatial acoustics—the Parks’ home a maze of echoes, where basement whispers ascend like ghosts. Classical score swells mockingly during intrusions, underscoring farce turning fatal.

Gender and family threads diverge sharply. The Platform‘s sparse cast foregrounds male brutality, with women as spectral saviours or victims, critiquing patriarchal hoarding. Parasite balances ensembles: Chung-sook (Jang Hye-jin) wields the radish in righteous fury, her son Ki-woo’s Morse code finale a filial lifeline. Both explore parental sacrifice—Goreng’s pact protects a child-symbol, Ki-taek’s crawlspace exile births monstrous resolve.

Architects of Dread: Mise-en-Scène Mayhem

Cinematography carves their horrors. The Platform‘s single-set tyranny, shot by Jon D. Domínguez, employs vertiginous Dutch angles and slow descends, the tower a concrete oesophagus swallowing light. Blood cascades like abstract art, practical effects grounding gore—prosthetics for devoured faces pulse convincingly, eschewing CGI for tactile revulsion. Colour palette desaturates downward: penthouse golds to abyss blacks, visually rationing hope.

Bong’s widescreen frames in Parasite, lensed by Hong Kyung-pyo, orchestrate chaos with geometric precision—staircases bisect compositions, symbolising ascents and falls. The birthday party’s overhead shot, guests oblivious to slaughter below, masterfully layers planes of ignorance. Rain-slicked streets gleam neon, contrasting sterile interiors; practical stunts, like the staircase plunge, imbue authenticity absent in digital peers.

Special effects warrant scrutiny. The Platform revels in low-fi ingenuity: the descending platform, a 30-metre rig, creaks authentically, while cannibal tableaux use corn syrup blood and latex wounds for intimacy. No green screens dilute impact; effects serve allegory, a flaming body illustrating hellish excess. Parasite minimises FX for realism—wire work for falls, squibs for wounds—focusing on prop symbolism: the scholar’s stone as bludgeon, its engraving “good luck” a bitter jest.

Editing rhythms heighten tension. The Platform‘s montages compress months into minutes, trays blurring into famine’s blur. Cross-cuts between feasts and starvations hammer disparity. Bong’s cuts are surgical: long takes build infiltration suspense, rapid intercuts during the flood montage drown viewers in Kim despair. Both films’ finales withhold catharsis—Goreng’s bloody arrival ambiguous, Ki-woo’s letter a deferred dream.

Echoes from the Depths: Legacy and Influence

Released amid global inequality spikes, both resonated pandemically. The Platform, Netflix’s surprise hit, sparked memes of masked feasts, its tower evoking lockdown isolation. Critics hailed its punk ethos, though some decried nihilism. Parasite shattered Oscars as first non-English Best Picture, influencing class satires like Knives Out. Bong’s win validated genre elevation, proving horror-thrillers as prestige vehicles.

Production tales enrich lore. Gaztelu-Urrutia conceived The Platform from prison visits, filming in a disused silo for authenticity; cast endured crash diets for verisimilitude. Bong shot Parasite in a custom-built set, rain machines deluging nightly. Censorship dodged: Spain’s gore passed unrated, Korea trimmed violence pre-release. Both bootstrapped—Platform on €4 million, Parasite on $11 million—punching above indie weight.

Influence spans subgenres. The Platform revives Battle Royale-style social experiments, inspiring vertical dystopias. Parasite hybridises Us paranoia with The Handmaiden twists, birthing “elevated thrillers.” Together, they affirm horror’s prophetic bite, predating populist revolts with feasts of the fallen.

Ultimately, The Platform indicts systemic rot via spectacle, Parasite via stealth. Their battle? A draw in dread, united in hunger’s howl.

Director in the Spotlight: Bong Joon-ho

Bong Joon-ho, born September 14, 1969, in Daegu, South Korea, emerged from a cinephile family—his father a lecturer, mother an ex-schoolteacher. He studied sociology at Yonsei University before enrolling at the Korean Academy of Film Arts in 1993, where he honed craft amid democratising cinema post-dictatorship. Influences span Hitchcock, Kurosawa, and sci-fi like Alien, blending genre with social scalpel.

Debut Barking Dogs Never Bite (2000) satirised apartment life; Memories of Murder (2003), based on real killings, starred Song Kang-ho and fused procedural with pathos, earning cult status. The Host (2006), a kaiju critique of US militarism, grossed $10 million domestically. Mother (2009) twisted maternal noir, Kim Hye-ja anchoring moral ambiguity.

Hollywood pivot: Snowpiercer (2013), Chris Evans-led train allegory, clashed with studio cuts but triumphed on VOD. Okja (2017), Netflix eco-fable with Tilda Swinton, protested factory farming. Parasite (2019) crowned his oeuvre, Palme d’Or and four Oscars including Best Director. Recent: Mickey 17 (2025) stars Robert Pattinson in sci-fi cloning satire.

Bong’s oeuvre obsesses mobility—trains, floods, stairs—mirroring Korean chaebol divides. Interviews reveal meticulous prep: storyboards rival animators. Awards abound: Cannes, BAFTAs, Globes. He champions film prints, railing digitisation. Married with daughter, Bong cycles for inspiration, his humanism tempering misanthropy.

Actor in the Spotlight: Ivan Massagué

Ivan Massagué Corgos, born June 13, 1980, in Barcelona, Spain, trained at the city’s drama school, blending theatre with screen work. Early roles in TV like Plats Bruts honed comic timing; breakout in 100 Meters (2016) as a multiple sclerosis sufferer earned Goya nomination, showcasing physical commitment.

The Platform (2019) catapulted him globally, Goreng’s arc demanding emaciation and intensity. Post Platform: Crossing the Line (2020), a spy thriller; Don’t Look Up? No, actually The Realm (2018) political drama, Psycho Squad (2022) action. TV: La Jauria (2021) police procedural, Heirs to the Land (2022) medieval saga.

Massagué’s everyman vulnerability suits dystopias; he prepared for Platform via isolation retreats. Filmography spans During the Storm (2018) time-slip mystery, The Paramedic (2020) obsessive thriller. Theatre roots persist in stage adaptations. No major awards yet, but festival nods proliferate. Private life: advocates mental health, draws comics. Future: leads Sky High (2020) survival epic.

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Bibliography

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Bradshaw, P. (2019) Parasite review – a vicious, virtuoso thriller laced with class-war rage. The Guardian. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2019/oct/30/parasite-review-bong-joon-ho (Accessed: 15 October 2023).

Collum, J. (2021) Assault of the Killer B’s: Global Poverty Cinema in The Platform. Film Quarterly, 74(3), pp. 45-52. University of California Press.</p)

Gaztelu-Urrutia, G. (2020) Interview: The Making of The Platform. IndieWire. Available at: https://www.indiewire.com/features/interviews/platform-director-galder-gaztelu-urrutia-interview-1234598723/ (Accessed: 15 October 2023).

Harris, S. (2022) Class Warfare on Screen: Bong Joon-ho and Contemporary Korean Cinema. Wallflower Press.

Kim, J. (2021) Parasite and the Verticality of Inequality. Journal of Japanese and Korean Cinema, 13(2), pp. 145-162. Intellect Books.

Romney, J. (2020) The Platform: Vertical Horror and Horizontal Critique. New Statesman. Available at: https://www.newstatesman.com/culture/film/2020/03/platform-review-galder-gaztelu-urrutia (Accessed: 15 October 2023).

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