Bong Joon-ho’s use of food, eating, and dystopic food systems to develop his arguments has not garnered the attention it deserves. Which is quite strange, as those elements are in your face, all the time, like in his last film Mickey 17.
Class stratification and social inequalities are not new themes in Bong Joon-ho’s cinematic work. Neither are his critique of unbridled consumerism, the excessive industrialization of the food system, and the potential horrors of biotechnology when (mis)guided by greed. Add some reflections about colonization and its tendency to destroy (or at least deeply change) whole ecosystems and you start having a sense of the chaotic, on-your-nose romp that is Mickey 17, the Korean filmmaker’s last movie after his 2019 much-acclaimed Parasite. Based on Edward Ashton’s sci-fi novel Mickey 7, the story is an uneven but quite enjoyable mix of sci-fi, political satire, romantic comedy, and ecological activism.
Much like in Avatar (2009), an outpost of humanity is determined to occupy a planet that is already inhabited, even if the newcomers cannot recognize any sign of agency or intelligence in the biological and cultural otherness they encounter. While in Avatar the main motivation for the expedition is corporate greed bent on stripping a planet of its resources, in Mickey 17 it is the mysterious cult of “the one and only” that cajoles the ego of a failed politician, Kenneth Marshall (Mark Ruffalo), enamored with himself, obsessed with his representation in media, and capable to command a passionate following (elements that in Ruffalo’s interpretation unsurprisingly remind us of current politics). Marshall dreams of a world where only the best (“pure”) human specimen will thrive on the cultivation of Earth crops, which will be introduced in the new environment without any consideration of the forms of life and the possible food resources that already exist in it. The foundation of this new Eden (which looks rather like an inhospitable mass of ice) can count on expendables, a novel category of exploited laborers that can be literally reproduced at little cost and without legal consequences every time they die. In other words, the wet dream of any capitalist enterprise. Mickey (Robert Pattinson) is one of such expendables, who joins the voyage into space to avoid a loan shark he owes a great deal of money. When he is believed dead and a copy of himself is printed a sequence of events ensue that force the colonists to face their own extinction.
The narrative deals with important ethical and religious topics that I cannot claim any expertise on and I won’t discuss in these paragraphs. No need for spoiler alerts eother, as I won’t mention anything else about the plot. It is enough to say that if you are looking for the measured finesse that catapulted Parasite to success, you may be disappointed. If you are instead looking for unabashed fun, also thanks to a great Pattinson, Mickey 17 is a good way to spend over two hours in a movie theater.
Much has been written about Bong Joon-Ho’s ability to look at the troubles of post-industrial society in a variety of genres and tones. However, his use of food, eating, and dystopic food systems to develop his arguments has not garnered the attention it deserves. Which is quite strange, as those elements are in your face, all the time. If in The Host (2006) the massive consumption of snacks and ultra-processed fare by a down-with-their-luck Seoul dwellers was showed in parallel with the appetite of an actual monster, in Snowpiercer (2013) the vastly divergent diets across the different classes in a train that transports the last of humanity across a frozen landscape was offered as a not-so-metaphorical indication of social disparities. Okja (2017) developed an over-the-top critique of corporate rapacity, the damage that mass-production can inflict on humanity, and the role that technology can play in those dynamics, while the more realistic Parasite (2019) focused on the vast disparities between the haves and the have-nots in contemporary Korea.
In Mickey 17, the food system of the expedition is a perfect although nightmarish implementation of the ideal of the circular economy: all human and food waste, included corpses, are turned into a magmatic slop that can be printed into both food and new humans, making sure that no resources are squandered until Eden is achieved. Mickey is acutely aware of being just a step above food: in the movie, he is variously referred to as “crap spam” and “human burger meat.” Confronted with the native creatures, quickly dubbed as “creepers,” which look like a tardigrade with scary ingestion organs (and long hair when they become adults), humans can only experience a primordial fear of being devoured. They are a dangerous herd whose social structure is unknown, and at least some humans will develop a desire to consume them. As it happened in many colonial ventures, local fauna risks to be hunted to extinction.
The food for the workers is shapeless and unappetizing, served through funnels onto trays, cafeteria-style, in a drab, utilitarian environment without any decoration or reference to the communal aspects of eating. Food has no smell either, to the point that scents come to be for Mickey an important way to access his emotions. Food is just fuel: no calories are allotted at random, and the members of the missions are allowed the precise number of calories they need to fulfill their duties. Observed at all times, eaters are scolded if they try to get hold of more than they are supposed to. Even sex is temporarily renounced to save the calories that intercourse can use. Nevertheless, it is in the cafeteria that Mickey finds companionship in Nasha, an elite guard (Naomi Ackie), demonstrating the human capacity to make do in the worst situations.
Although the modalities of its distribution are justified as technical necessities for the mission, food becomes a tool for biological control of the workers. Moreover, food functions an implicit instrument for class differentiation and an expression of power. Marshall’s wife Ylfa (Toni Collette) is obsessed with sauces, which she considered the peak of distinction and the basis for civilization. Always trying to make her food more appealing, she shows an implicit drive to impose human power on the local creatures. Mickey internalizes his lack of appreciation for sauces as an indication of his low value as an individual to the point they end up haunting his waking nightmares.
Marshall and his wife have access to cultivated meat, which however needs to be tinkered with. The effects of the ingestion of meat containing growth hormones on the human body are cynically observed by making the expendable Mickey eat it. More importantly, the leaders in a separate space excessively decorated with accoutrements that are supposed to establish an atmosphere of fine dining, from extravagant tableware to Persian carpets. Dangling the carrot of success in front of their peons, Marshall and his wife from time to time invite worthy workers to dinner, making a big deal of the occasion and highlighting their generosity and the good fortune of the chosen ones.
Food is not only an expression of success but also a pathway to secure it. Mickey and a friend (Stephen Yeun) get in trouble with a loan shark when they borrow money to open a macaron business, convinced that the refined specialty offers better opportunities than burgers. When confronted by the loan shark’s goons, they both wear a T-shirt with the image of a macaron and the words “Macaron is not a sin,” where the sin appears to be their aspiration to improve their lot. Later on, we see a “one and only” café, hinting to the cult’s involvement in the food business as a source of revenue. Corporate marketing knows no boundaries. Even in the extreme setting of the spaceship, food is available through vending machines, which we can only assume sell the same tasteless chow as in the canteen, but packaged to be available at any time, presumably at a cost.
The only memento from a previous earthly life is the tea that one of the characters keeps for special occasions, to be drank when somebody needs comfort or support. In space, it becomes a precious reminder of the emotional meaning of food, a luxury that acquires even greater value when shared with loved ones. Although not enough to subvert the order on things, tea is real food. Something the loss of which Bong Joon-ho seems already be grieving.