Film in the modern day is, and always has been, an exaggerated reflection of society; one that people personally connect with. In the movie Parasite (2019), director Bong Joon-ho grabs hold of that emotional connection, constructing a dark comedy satire of modern-day capitalism. The film follows the Kim family—Ki-taek, Chung-sook, Ki-woo, and Ki-jung—who live in a cramped semi-basement apartment, struggling to make ends meet. At their lowest, the family constructs a series of calculated deceptions, infiltrating the wealthy Park household of an innocent family by posing as highly-qualified employees. What begins as a clever, almost playful-like manipulation quickly descends into violence and tragedy—revealing the fragile illusion of social mobility.

At first glance, Parasite appears to be a stylish black comedy about class envy. However, its humor is not comedic—it is strategic. Director Bong establishes the irony before the film’s even begun, naming the film itself its primary satirical weapon. Who is the parasite? 

Through the Kims’ exploitation of the wealthy family’s riches, the Parks family then depend entirely on the invisible labor of those beneath them—those who are poor. This mutual dependency destabilizes the binary of “deserving rich” and “scheming poor.” The Parks, despite their politeness, illustrate parasitism in their own ways—comfortably living in inherited wealth, oblivious to the systems that sustain them. We viewers laugh when the Kims rehearse their fabricated backstories, or while they subtly eliminate previous employees for their own benefit, yet that laughter is tinged with discomfort as we snap-back to reality and recognize their ingenuity sprouts from roots of desperation.

The power of understatements sharpens the blade of Bong’s satirical blade. Mr. Park’s undertoned snubs at Ki-taek’s “smell”—the odor of the subway, of poverty—are delivered politely. Yet said-undertones extort a profound moral rot. The Parks never shout or overtly demean; instead, their microaggressions reveal an unconscious belief in hierarchy. They believe it’s ‘a known fact’ she and her family be treated this way because of the roof they reside beneath. The satire here is subtle: Bong suggests that systemic inequality is not always upheld by cartoonish villains but by “nice” people who benefit from injustice without questioning it.

The film Parasite is not merely mocking the wealthy or romanticizing the poor. The Kims are neither noble revolutionaries nor innocent victims. They deceive, manipulate, and displace others in similar economic positions. In doing so, the film critiques the myth that individual cunning can overcome structural inequality. The final sequence—Ki-woo’s dream of earning enough money to buy the Park house—operates as bitter irony. His fantasy is visually convincing, yet we understand it is unattainable. The American Dream–like-promise of upward mobility is exposed as narrative fiction through Bong’s satire. He expands beyond individual characters, conveying an entirely matted economic system. One that pits the vulnerable against one another, while at the same time preserving ingrained privilege.

Ultimately, Parasite’s intentions aren’t for just entertainment purposes—but to unsettlessly awaken its viewers. The humor acts as a lure to the fish in the audience, reeling them into complicity; we laugh at the Kims’ schemes, admire their cleverness—these forms of comedy are a tactical subversion of hierarchy. Giving us the ability to laugh at what’s wrong right in front of us. Dissonance, in some sense. However, the film’s violent climax shatters that dissonance, pulling us viewers into the cost of inequality. Bong constructs Parasite to act in a way that demands viewers to question—question the structure, question the desperation, question the plausible. Rather than offering simplistic solutions, Bong exposes the blueprint—both literal and metaphorical—of class division. Then he leaves us to grapple with its consequences.