Bong Joon Ho doesn’t enter cinema. He inhabits it, reshapes it, and invites us to peer into altered reflections of our own world. Mickey 17 is no different in its ambition: it introduces us to a future that’s less about lasers and more about systems, sacrifice, and the uncomfortable question of what survives when your body doesn’t. This isn’t space opera grandeur, nor dystopia for dystopia’s sake. It’s a film that threads quiet horror through its premise: a man sent to die over and over again for a cause he’s no longer sure he believes in. The catch? He remembers every death. And yet, this isn’t a film about grief. It’s about the redundancy of identity when the soul becomes disposable.
From the first few minutes, you feel that Bong is juggling multiple themes, opening a series of narrative tabs that could potentially unfold into rich verticals. And for a while, it works. There’s world-building that’s neither too abstract nor too far-fetched—more like 2029 than 3029. The production design and costume choices avoid sci-fi spectacle in favor of functionality. It’s a future you don’t question, because it looks like one we’ve already started building. A world just believable enough to trap you inside it.
Visually, the film is composed with precision. This isn’t a sensory overload. It’s calculated—industrial lines, sterile hues, and clinical minimalism, as if the camera itself has signed a non-emotional contract with its subjects. Even the creatures—those eerie, semi-familiar designs—carry a visual fingerprint reminiscent of Okja. You sense a common ancestry in Bong’s creature work, not by replication but by sensibility. It’s his universe, and the animals still look like they’ve evolved in the same cinematic biosphere.
The music, though—this is where the film sings. Literally and structurally. It doesn’t just fill the background; it converses with the scenes. It’s classical but not heavy, emotional but not manipulative. It’s storytelling in waveform. The score transforms into a narrative medium, particularly in that pivotal moment when Mickey 1 meets Nasha. No dialogue, just music and looks. It’s Bong at his most poetic—his most “Ho-like.” That wordless tension becomes the promise of something more, something we think will unfold, but never quite does.
Which brings us to the film’s greatest paradox: its canvas is rich, but some strokes are abandoned mid-paint. Threads are left hanging or too quickly tied, as if the film is afraid of its own potential. There’s a version of Mickey 17 where its philosophical layers are explored with the same surgical brilliance as Parasite. But here, Bong takes a safer road. Not lazy, not careless—just traditional. And for a director who made us squirm and sob over class systems in a fish tank, that feels… uncharacteristic.
Yet you can’t discount his craftsmanship. Even with a conventional third act, Mickey 17 is compelling. It doesn’t explode into something memorable, but it hums with ideas and moments—some clear, others left to haunt you quietly.
And what of Robert Pattinson? Here, he’s not just a protagonist—he’s an existential mirror. Watching him play multiple versions of Mickey (17 and 18) is like watching a man argue with his own afterlife. The distinction between the clones is masterful—Mickey 17 carries a weight, a spiritual fatigue. Mickey 18, meanwhile, moves with naive urgency. It’s subtle work. Controlled, magnetic, and often emotionally devastating. If there’s a criticism here, it’s that the differences between versions are perhaps too pronounced. At times, it feels like two completely unrelated people. A whisper of continuity between them might have grounded the concept more deeply. After all, they are supposed to be the same man—just with extra mileage.
Supporting performances hold their ground. Mark Ruffalo delivers a particularly compelling character—somewhere between a Southern preacher and a corporate dictator. You can feel the DNA of modern-day televangelists and faux moral leadership in his performance. His character sermonizes with a messiah complex that unnervingly echoes today’s manipulative populists. It’s satire, sure, but not as sharp as we know Bong can be. There’s bite, but it doesn’t draw blood.
Structurally, the film sprawls—and not always in the best way. Some scenes feel like meditative pitstops: visually rich, but narratively stagnant. The pacing hesitates, flirts with momentum, then detours again. There’s deadpan humor here too, often brushing up against bleak introspection. It works in parts, but sometimes feels like two different films battling over tone.
And yet, despite the unevenness, something lingers. Not the plot twists or the CGI creatures. What remains is the quiet, unspoken question: if death stops mattering, what does it mean to be alive? Mickey 17 doesn’t answer it. It doesn’t try. And maybe that’s the point.
If we strip away the hype, the expectations, and the shadow of Bong’s past masterpieces, what we have is an entertaining, well-made film. It might not be this year’s awards magnet. But it’s a worthy addition to the shelf of “films that make you think quietly, long after the credits roll.” And in a cinematic world obsessed with loud spectacle and emotional manipulation, maybe that’s enough.
Rating: ★★★★★★☆☆☆☆ (6/10)