Mickey 17: A Failed Satire
By Kaatje Vandenberg
Following Bong Joon Ho’s masterpiece, Parasite, Mickey 17 is awkward, messy, and moralizing. Parasite’s social criticism feels like a scalpel, sleek with intention and razor-sharp humour; Mickey 17, however, is more like a wooden mallet, one that whacks you over the head over and over again.
This is not to imply that Mickey 17 has nothing interesting to say. The movie follows Mickey Barnes, a well-meaning but rather simple lowlife, who accidentally signs a contract agreeing to work as a “disposable worker” in a space expedition to colonize an ice planet. This means that he is assigned to dangerous and often fatal tasks. The catch is that whenever he dies, a clone of him is reprinted with all of his memories intact. As the ice planet is revealed to already have a native species, the colony’s leadership grows increasingly authoritarian and cruel, and Mickey is forced to confront his role in the colony. Here, Bong opens the door to explore a myriad of societal and existential questions about the commodification of human bodies under capitalism, the construction of the self, and what it means to die.
For such a fascinating premise, it is disappointing how little Mickey 17 differs from its contemporaries. Complete with a peaceful native alien species, unable to advocate for themselves, an evil dictator set on exterminating said species, and a righteous speech about how “they were here first!”, Mickey 17 engages in the same anti-colonialism-lite discourse as Avatar or The Valerian, while adding nothing to the conversation. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bothersome if the movie weren’t so self-satisfied in its own social consciousness. The alien species, called the Niflheim, are like huge, cuddly, rolly pollies. The villainous governor of the space colony, played by Mark Ruffalo, is bent on killing every single one simply because he is villainous and also because his wife wants to use their blood as sauce. The satire is so unsubtle that it tips over into didactic, but just in case you don’t get the message, there are a few dramatic monologues earnestly condemning the space colonists.
Admittedly, subtlety does not seem to be Bong’s aim. Mark Ruffalo, for example, does a blatant impression of Trump, which grounds the movie in a very real present. Mickey 17, however, can not seem to manage any depth beyond an SNL-style parody. In some ways, SNL is preferable because at least it doesn’t take itself so seriously. What bothers me so much about Mickey 17 is less that Ruffalo plays his character as outlandishly stupid, comically selfish, and absurdly evil. Rather, it is that the protagonists of the movie watch him with imploring horror and demand, “How could you?” The emotionality of it feels unearned: the characters are far more appalled than the audience, who has long been inoculated to the fact of Trump. Bong forgoes insight in favor of indignation, and the result is overblown and uncomfortable.
What’s so frustrating about Mickey 17 is not what it is but what it could have been. Throughout, we can catch glimpses of this potential: in Robert Pattinson’s compelling performance as Mickey, in the occasional moments of sharp humor, in the philosophical implications around life and death. Yet, they’re hidden by the clutter.
