Acclaimed director Bong Joon Ho’s Parasite is an entry into the thriller genre that is chock-full of rich social commentary, compelling characters, and carefully-sewn plot twists. The film can already be described as a modern classic; there is no praise I can offer up that hasn’t already been articulated by somebody much smarter than I (but I bet their publishers didn’t let them add these silly little nonsensical interjections!).

 Anyways, Parasite’s reckoning with the pernicious inter-and-intra class divisions that characterize modern capitalism occurs through many mediums – writing, cinematography, blocking, mise en scène – but today I am only going to explore these mediums as they relate to the concept of height. I feel now is as good a time as ever to mention that despite what my title may suggest, the eloquently-layered social commentary crafted in Parasite was born from the labor of many. Film is inherently a collaborative art form, and while Bong Joon Ho spearheaded the sculpting of his vision, many hands – storyboarders, production assistants, editors, and countless more–were instrumental in bringing it to the screen. I would like to mention cinematographer Hong Kyung-pyo in particular, as his work accounts for a large chunk of my following analysis. However, I can’t let go of a sneaking suspicion that How Bong Joon Ho and Hong Kyung-pyo Use Height in Parasite wouldn’t have netted quite the same number of clicks (which is crucial because Bijou won’t let me have any more free popcorn if this flops). 

But back to the concept of height. It’s not astonishingly clever or devilishly subtle. Capitalism and height are about as synonymous as myself and tangential rambling. But–when executed well–it doesn’t seem to matter. A scene I feel illustrates this perfectly is the film’s low-point (speaking in terms of the classic three-act structure), which I will refer to from here-on-out as the flood sequence. I’ll forego a full summary of the story up to this point, as I’m assuming most of you who were foolish enough to click the link leading you to this unrelenting assault of alphabet soup of which you are currently attempting to sort through (say that five time fast) are already familiar with the basic plot. If that is in fact the case, feel free (encouraged, even–given the fact that my famously counterproductive brand of summary will most likely take what understanding you previously held and toss it out the window) to skip the following two paragraphs. Yet if only for the sake of clarity, here’s the Merriam-Webster. I would hope this goes without saying, but a spoiler alert is now in effect.

Parasite follows two (with the eventual addition of a surprise third proverbial horse) families living in Seoul, South Korea. The Kims exist on the bottom rung of the capitalistic ladder, living paycheck-to-paycheck and working minimum-wage jobs to make ends meet. In stark contrast: the Parks–a wealthy family residing in a gated hilltop community. 

The lives and interests of these two collectives intertwine and subsequently clash when Ki-woo (of the Kim family) secures a position as the Parks’ English tutor by using forged credentials. Ki-woo in-turn procures jobs for the rest of his family, each member fabricating their qualifications and concealing the lineage they share with Ki-woo. Tension ensues between the Kims and the Parks’s housekeeper, Moon-gwang. While attempting to force her out in hopes of complete control over the Park employee-base, the Kims discover Moon-gwang has been secretly harboring her husband in a hidden bunker underneath the house. A struggle ensues, and the Kims deal Moon-gwang a serious head injury, incapacitating her. With their carefully-constructed lifestyle hanging by a thread, the Parks must slip past the Kims unnoticed (as the struggle with Moon-gwang has left them in the house longer than allowed) and return to their impoverished neighborhood. Unfortunately upon stepping outside, they realize it is raining. Hard. This is where the flood sequence begins.

So here we are. The Parks have just ducked under the lowering garage door a’la Indiana Jones and now find themselves caught in the downpour. The meticulously crafted systems incepted alongside Western capitalism (the “weather cycles,” if you will) have ushered the out-of-place and overreaching Parks along on their journey back to their assigned caste. A subsequent series of beautifully-composed wide shots ensue, as we detachedly (as is necessary for the palatability of such a ruthless system) watch the Parks fall from grace. From the top of the ladder they descend, from the house in the hills to the apartment below ground. Literal vertical stratification, masterfully displayed through a series of uncomfortable truths disguised as extreme-wide shots. The Parks are returned to their rightful place, swept away by the rain–an inevitable, systematic, routine function, just on time to carry the unwanteds back down to their necessary position. The dream is over; the inescapability of their rigid social class allotment has reared its ugly head once again. 

Another striking frame takes us farther, slowly lowering beneath waist-level as we plunge further into poverty. We’re at the lowest; the street swells with rainwater, pooling together in a sinister inevitability. It’s here where the Parks arrive at a sobering reality: their home, halfway full of water. Belongings destroyed. Rock bottom. The structural importance of this moment from a storytelling perspective cannot be understated. This is it: the low. Our protagonists aren’t merely back where they started; they’re worse off. Lower. And how does Hong Kyung-pyo convey this? He gets the camera low. 

Instead of the omnipotent wides we were mercifully fed before, now Bong Joon-Ho takes us up close and personal. The approved viewing distance has been bypassed; we now get to examine the effects of a system built on disadvantagement at our leisure. We watch this tragic reprimanding from uncomfortable, close low-angles, never given the chance to look away and withdraw our culpability as the witness. 

The effectiveness of simplicity should not be overlooked, and Parasite’s flood sequence is a perfect example of why. I could continue listing observations I gleaned from this seven-minute sequence for pages more, but what’s important is that so many of them work within the context of the physical theme. By employing diegetic height to communicate the desired theme (inequality/class division/exploitation), Bong Joon Ho effectively makes the theme a character. A diegetic character, existing within the story in a manner where the characters can physically interact with it. The importance of this manifestation cannot be understated. I consider it crucial to Parasite’s effectiveness. Because the real villain in this story, the real parasite–is the system predicated upon the confinement and exploitation of those at the bottom of the ladder, which Bong Joon Ho expertly brings to life through his understanding of height.