Bong Joon Ho, the dazzling, daring, devilishly inventive maestro of South Korean cinema, transforms into a surprisingly bland and bafflingly overpraised director the moment he tiptoes into the slick, self-congratulatory, English-speaking halls of Hollywood. At home, he’s a razor-sharp, socially-savvy sorcerer, conjuring tense, twisty, genre-defying masterpieces with the precision of a neurosurgeon and the madness of a caffeinated street poet. But abroad? He becomes a meandering, metaphor-huffing, Oscar-baiting tourist, peddling soggy satire wrapped in glossy, slow-moving mediocrity, like a Michelin chef trying to impress with microwave lasagna. Yes, I did ask my cellphone AI to help me with adjectives.
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