THE KING OF PIGS. About the Loss of Innocence

The King of Pigs does not stand out for its attractive animation. To be honest, it was precisely because of that irritating drawing style that I turned the film off less than thirty minutes into my first viewing. However, I must admit that I quickly decided to resume watching it. This South Korean production possesses something alluring and mysterious. And it truly is worth watching until the end, even if its imperfection and the brutality of its visuals make that difficult. The King of Pigs is an intense story about the loss of innocence, and about the evil that begins to take root—a kind of evil that, in the eyes of bullied boys, seems like the only weapon against school injustice. It’s an exceptionally bleak film, soaked in rawness and cruelty, in many ways resembling an animated version of Lord of the Flies.

Jong-suk Jeong and Kyung-min Hwang were best friends back in school. After fifteen years of mutual silence, the two men—now adults—arrange to meet and reminisce about the old days over rice liquor. As the flashbacks—of which the film largely consists—reveal, those days were far from carefree. The memories of past events hang over the protagonists like a curse. Both boys were unremarkable among their peers. In a school divided clearly between the rich and the “ordinary,” Kyung-min and Jong-suk belonged to those who were expected to stay in line.

Especially since their class was ruled by two kids who found pleasure in tormenting those weaker than themselves. The protagonists’ school years would likely have passed under the shadow of terror and submission—if not for one student. Chul, a quiet, mysterious boy from the back row, was the only one brave enough to stand up to the classroom bullies, earning the admiration of the two friends. Chul initially became their protector, later their friend, and finally their mentor, teaching them his credo: “Anyone who doesn’t want to be a fool must become a monster.” To defeat evil, one must first plant it within oneself.

Evil is an inseparable part of human nature—it’s what shapes a person. The intriguing outcast became the embodiment of the boys’ deeply buried desires: strength, courage, brutality, revenge. By dividing people into dogs and pigs, Chul becomes the King of Pigs—a self-proclaimed leader of the oppressed and the weak, in whom he tries, for their own good, to instill the primal seed of evil.

As I mentioned earlier, the animation style is something that might repel rather than attract. It’s clumsy, lacking fluidity, primitive. The characters move in a strikingly stiff, artificial manner. Yet in a way, that becomes an advantage. The animation fits perfectly with the film’s grim tone. The faces of the characters, twisted in spasms of pain, and their noticeable ugliness seem to mirror their decayed inner selves. They look more like monsters than humans—and it’s hard to deny that the film is indeed about human monsters. Brutality, aggression, injustice, and helplessness are its main themes.

According to the filmmakers, all these flaws stem from social inequality. Throughout the film, the motif of money recurs—whether through its possession or the desperate pursuit of it. Money determines human fate. Continuing this idea, the filmmakers offer the viewer a grim philosophy: a person cannot pretend to be something they’re not. Victims of fate should live among their own kind. A pig will always remain a pig. The only way to climb higher in the social hierarchy is through destructive violence. The King of Pigs is a study of consuming violence—violence that, once injected into the veins of quiet, modest boys, transforms them beyond recognition.

It’s a brutal film about the dehumanization of man—where the only thing that separates him from an animal is his ability to wield a knife, and his unwillingness to put it down. The creators portray the protagonists in a way that maintains an emotional distance between them and the audience. Indeed, they don’t evoke much sympathy or compassion. Nonetheless, the issues the film raises are so universal that it’s difficult not to relate to them, and impossible to watch the story unfold with indifference. In the end, however, the film leaves no hope—it remains a brutal tale of injustice, painfully immersed in nihilism.

Aside from the graphic intensity of its characters and the violence of its imagery, the animation itself has little to boast about. The screenplay, however, fares far better than the visual style. The film’s main pillars are its three central characters. They are completely distinct individuals with different personalities, and their portraits are deep, expressive, and psychologically convincing—their actions and choices justified and understandable. One of the film’s most interesting elements is the surreal, unsettling imagery that haunts the characters—illustrating their inner conflicts, exposing their fears and uncertainties, and giving form to the voices of their consciences.

It’s an intriguing and original way of delving into the protagonists’ minds. Returning to the script, there are moments when one feels the creators are forcing the drama a bit too much in the story of the three students. Ultimately, however, the film convinces us that the narrative was carefully crafted. The ending, in particular, stands out as the story’s most powerful and emotionally charged moment. It fully demonstrates the narrative skill and dramatic control of director and screenwriter Yeon Sang-ho.

Despite its minor flaws, The King of Pigs remains an ambitious film that stirs a wide range of strong, often extreme emotions in the viewer. It’s not only a film for adults but also one for those with particularly strong nerves. Its brutal aesthetic and the harrowing themes it explores make it linger in the memory for a long time, haunting with its grim message. Undoubtedly, it enriches the repertoire of South Korean animated productions and proves that animation can explore serious, difficult subjects with the same insight and emotional depth as live-action cinema.