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It was a cold, gray Sunday morning. The wind rattled the windows, and rain poured steadily, wrapping the day in a quiet, somber mood. I had no plans-just the comfort of my couch and the promise of a slow, uneventful morning.

Then, my phone lit up. A message. Her name.

"Let's watch Parasite. You better pay attention."

I stared at the screen for a moment. I had heard of the film-whispers of brilliance, tension, and surprise. Did I feel like diving into it right now? Not really. But I knew better than to ignore her suggestion.

So, with a breath of curiosity and the press of a button, I started the movie.

Two and a half hours later, I sat in silence-stunned, unsettled, and certain I had witnessed something unforgettable.

The review:

Parasite begins with a slow, almost playful rhythm, much like the gentle tapping of rain before a downpour. The Kim family-Ki-taek (Song Kang-ho), Chung-sook (Jang Hye-jin), Ki-woo (Choi Woo-shik), and Ki-jung (Park So-dam)-live in a cramped, damp basement apartment, their window offering little more than a view of the street's filth and the occasional drunkard relieving himself. Their lives are shaped by scarcity, but their bond is unshakable.

When an opportunity arises for Ki-woo to tutor the daughter of the wealthy Park family, the Kims seize it. One by one, through clever lies and careful manipulation, they embed themselves in the Parks' luxurious household. The initial warmth and humor lulled me into a false sense of security-just like the soft patter of rain before a thunderclap. I felt her eyes on me from afar, making sure I was paying attention. And I was.

Every actor carries the weight of their character's desperation and desire. Song Kang-ho, as the weary Ki-taek, delivers a performance that feels deeply human-tired, hopeful, and quietly resentful. Park So-dam, sharp and charismatic as Ki-jung, embodies the resourcefulness born from struggle. The Parks, played by Lee Sun-kyun and Cho Yeo-jeong, are both kind and cold, oblivious to the systems that shield them from the harshness of life below.

Watching it with her, I felt something shift-an unspoken acknowledgment of the performances' power. It was more than a movie; it was a mirror reflecting how easily human connection can be clouded by circumstance.

The Park family's home is a masterpiece of design-spacious, pristine, and flooded with sunlight. But Bong Joon-ho transforms it into something ominous. The large windows, once inviting, become unsettling, as though the house is always watching. Every stairway and hidden door feels like a fault line between privilege and struggle.

The Kims' infiltration into this space felt like stepping into the eye of the storm-calm, controlled, and yet brimming with tension. And like any storm, peace would not last.

When the storm inside the film finally erupts, it is swift and merciless. The hidden basement, the forgotten lives beneath the Parks' luxury, the violence that follows-it felt like the sky breaking open. The literal rainstorm that floods the Kims' basement, washing away their fragile illusion of success, mirrored the storm that had been brewing in the film's soul all along.

I remember thinking of her as the floodwaters rose on-screen-both of us silent, both of us feeling the cold, suffocating truth of it. The real storm outside felt distant compared to the one inside us and the film.

Parasite is more than a thriller or a drama-it is a reflection of society's fault lines. It lays bare the invisible walls that separate rich and poor, the comfort of the upper class built on the suffering of those below.

The rain, which brings the Parks a night of peaceful sleep, brings the Kims devastation. And in that moment, I felt the duality of the storm around us-how the same world can be cruel to some and comforting to others.

The climax left me breathless. Violence erupts, not from evil, but from the slow accumulation of resentment, misunderstanding, and desperation. Ki-taek's final act-his sudden, uncontrollable break-feels like the final crash of thunder after too much pressure in the air.

And then, quiet.

When the credits rolled, I didn't reach for the remote. She didn't say anything either. The storm outside had eased, but inside, the weight of what we had witnessed remained. I realized that Parasite wasn't just a story; it was a confrontation-with society, with privilege, and with ourselves.

Final Thoughts:

That morning, I hadn't wanted to watch the film. But as the rain slowed and the sky began to clear, I knew I had experienced something rare-something that challenged and changed me. She knew it too.

Bong Joon-ho's Parasite is more than a masterpiece of cinema; it is a storm-a force of nature that strips away illusions and leaves you standing in the wreckage of what you thought you understood.

She told me to pay attention. And I did.

Rewatching Life is like stepping back into a time when comedy and tragedy blended seamlessly, when Eddie Murphy and Martin Lawrence shared the screen with such ease it felt like you were watching old friends riff off one another, laughing in spite of the pain beneath. It's like returning to a familiar corner of your mind, where humor softened the edges of harsh realities, a space where the struggles of life were met with defiant laughter.

Each time you watch Life, it's like meeting up with Ray and Claude again-two men who, despite the odds, never lost their spirit, even when life tried to strip them of everything. Their banter, their resilience, it all feels like a reunion with parts of yourself that once knew how to laugh, even when the circumstances were anything but funny. They remind you that humor can be a shield, a way to push back against life's injustices, even when the weight of the world bears down.

The film, with its biting wit and quiet heartbreak, isn't just a story about two men wrongfully imprisoned-it's a reflection on the ways we cope with our own prisons, whether literal or metaphorical. Watching Life again is like flipping through an old photo album, filled with memories of moments that made you laugh, but also moments that forced you to confront the bitter realities of the world. Yet, each time, you find new layers-new moments of subtle brilliance in the performances, in the way humor is used not just as relief, but as a form of survival.

And with each rewatch, Life feels like a touchstone, a film that, despite its age, still resonates. The jokes still land, but now, perhaps, they land differently. What was once just funny now feels like a deeper commentary on the human spirit's ability to endure, to resist. Ray and Claude aren't just characters-they're symbols of that stubborn refusal to let life break you down completely.

In rewatching Life, you're not just revisiting a movie-you're reconnecting with a part of yourself that sees the absurdity of the world, and yet still finds a way to laugh through it.