The Platform Might Be the Darkest Film Yet

It was a Saturday night in lockdown. I had just finished washing dishes and scrolling through Netflix’s trending list when The Platform showed up. The preview played automatically. A man in a jumpsuit stared up into an endless square hole, while something large and fast dropped from above. The next second, a table of food descended like an elevator. That was all I needed to press play.

I assumed I was getting into a regular horror or suspense film. Something that would shock me, maybe a little gore here and there, and then wrap itself up with a moral message or twist. But halfway through, I realized this wasn’t going to be an easy watch. It was designed to make you uncomfortable in a way that doesn’t let up. There’s something about watching people descend mentally and physically that becomes more unsettling than any monster or ghost story.

What really got to me was how quiet the movie was. Not silent, but still. Even in moments of chaos, the soundtrack doesn't save you. There's no musical build-up or audio cue to prepare you. You’re stuck inside that concrete cell with the characters, just waiting to see what comes down with the platform—or what doesn’t.

📚 Table of Contents

1. Why This Platform Netflix Review Feels Personal 2. That Scene with the Panna Cotta 3. The Character That Broke Me 4. I Regret Watching This at Midnight 5. The Message Hit Harder Than I Thought 6. The Ending Made Me Feel Empty 7. It’s Not Just a Movie About Food 8. Still Thinking About It Days Later 9. Questions Everyone Has After Watching 10. Watch It Now or Avoid It Forever

Why This Platform Netflix Review Feels Personal

This isn’t your average Netflix horror. The Platform is what happens when a movie forces you to ask what kind of person you’d become in isolation with dwindling resources. And in the middle of a global pandemic, when people are hoarding toilet paper and panic-buying canned goods, it feels just a little too real. Directed by Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia, this Spanish sci-fi horror launched worldwide on Netflix this March, and if you haven’t watched it yet, you might want to hold off until you’re mentally prepared.

The Platform’s central mechanism—a concrete slab laden with leftovers—becomes a brutal stage for survival as it descends through each level.

The entire movie takes place inside what’s known as the "Vertical Self-Management Center," or "The Pit"—a multi-level prison with two inmates per floor and a platform of food that descends once a day. Those on top eat well. Those below get scraps. Those at the very bottom? They get nothing. It’s a system that forces reflection on real-world inequality, especially in the way the characters justify their choices.

There’s something about watching it during a time when the outside world feels just as uncertain that makes the movie cut deeper. Some scenes echo the fear that many people are experiencing right now, and it's hard not to draw parallels between the movie’s vertical system and the current state of privilege and survival in our own society. This isn’t just a movie about horror. It’s about how fast civility crumbles when resources run thin.

That Scene with the Panna Cotta

This movie doesn’t waste time building mystery for the sake of mystery. Every object on screen seems intentional, and the panna cotta might be the best example of that. At first, it’s just one of many luxurious dishes that ride down the platform untouched. But when it reappears much later, it turns into something else entirely—a symbol, an idea, and possibly a message.

The panna cotta becomes more than just dessert—it’s the film’s most debated symbol of resistance and message to the system.

Here’s the moment: two characters decide that the panna cotta must be sent back up untouched as proof. Proof that even within the chaos, someone chose not to give in to the system. It’s such a simple act, but in a place where survival feels like the only rule, saving the panna cotta becomes a radical statement. Whether it works or not is never really confirmed. And that’s part of what makes it stick with you.

👉 FUN FACT: The filmmakers hired real chefs to create the extravagant banquet that appears on the platform. Every dish was meticulously prepared to represent luxury and indulgence. According to interviews, the food had to look appealing from every angle since the camera would often shoot it from above, below, and mid-descent.

The Character That Broke Me

Goreng might be the protagonist, but he’s not a hero in the traditional sense. He starts off calm and bookish, carrying a copy of Don Quixote, thinking he’ll just read and wait out his sentence. By the end, he’s barely recognizable. That shift is hard to watch, not because it’s unexpected, but because it feels too real.

Then there’s Baharat, introduced later in the film. He brings a different energy—a kind of chaotic hope. He believes he can climb upward, break free, find someone in charge. His optimism is both inspiring and heartbreaking. It doesn’t take long before he, too, realizes that the structure they’re in doesn’t reward hope. It punishes it.

In one of the film’s most haunting shots, the woman sits alone atop the platform—an unsettling image that fuels endless debate about hope and survival.

What broke me wasn’t a single moment but the slow unraveling. Each character is forced to compromise something—morality, sanity, belief—in order to survive. And what’s worse is how quickly the viewer starts to understand and even rationalize those choices. You find yourself thinking, “I’d probably do the same thing.” That’s when the movie starts doing its real work.

I Regret Watching This at Midnight

By the time the credits rolled, I was just sitting there. I didn’t move for a good minute or two. It felt like I had watched something I wasn’t supposed to see. And I mean that in the best and worst way possible. It’s the kind of film that leaves a residue on your thoughts.

I made the mistake of watching it at midnight, alone, with the lights off. Rookie mistake. I was expecting jumpscares or a twist ending I could complain about. What I got was silence, dread, and a sense that I’d just been psychologically cornered for 90 minutes. I tried to scroll through memes afterward to lighten the mood but even that felt off. The feeling lingers.

Here’s a short list of post-movie reactions I wouldn’t recommend:

➡️ Trying to eat a snack while watching this movie

➡️ Watching it while hungry or after a big meal

➡️ Watching it alone late at night

➡️ Watching it with someone who asks too many questions

➡️ Watching it thinking it’s just another Cube-style sci-fi

The Platform is a mirror, and watching it in the middle of a real-world crisis just makes the reflection sharper. I don’t think it would hit the same way if things were normal outside. But right now? It feels like required viewing. Just... maybe not before bed.

Throwback: Why Dreamgirls Left Me Staring at the Screen

The Message Hit Harder Than I Thought

I’ve seen dystopian films before, but this one didn’t just hint at inequality. It built an entire world around it. The vertical prison in The Platform is a literal structure of inequality. Those at the top eat like royalty. Those at the bottom fight for scraps. You don’t have to be a film student to see what that means. It hits even harder now when real shelves are running empty and some people have more than they need.

The message isn’t buried under symbolism. It’s right there in your face. Sharing could fix everything, but people don’t. Either they don’t believe it will work or they just don’t care. And that feels very familiar. I’ve seen it at supermarkets this week. I’ve seen it online when people are reselling supplies at triple the price. It’s not just a movie anymore. It’s a reminder that society is always closer to the edge than we think.

The fact that this movie was made before the pandemic is chilling. According to interviews with director Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia, The Platform was always meant to be a reflection of how people behave when put in a pressure cooker. It’s just that real life caught up faster than anyone expected.

The Ending Made Me Feel Empty

The last twenty minutes of the film feel like a descent into something primal. By that point, Goreng and Baharat have committed to a plan. They ride the platform downward, level by level, trying to bring order to the chaos. They ration food. They fight back. They hope that if they protect the panna cotta, maybe it will reach the top and send a message. But then they reach the bottom. And there’s something else there.

It’s hard to talk about the ending without giving it away, but let’s just say it doesn’t wrap things up with a neat bow. The final shot is more like a question than an answer. Was there ever someone at the top watching? Did the message matter? Or did the system swallow everything whole? Those questions don’t leave you once the credits roll. They sit with you. They make you replay the entire movie in your head.

According to a Collider interview with Gaztelu-Urrutia, the ambiguity was intentional. He wanted viewers to sit with the discomfort and draw their own conclusions. That approach works because it reflects real life. We don’t always get closure. Sometimes we just get silence.

It’s Not Just a Movie About Food

A lot of people will say The Platform is about hunger or scarcity. But that’s only part of it. There’s also a constant tension around control, religion, power, and what people believe when they’re desperate. Goreng starts out rational, even a bit naive, but as his reality shifts, so does what he’s willing to do. And so does what he believes in.

The Platform’s food platform is a grotesque symbol of excess—an extravagant feast that descends through levels of growing desperation.

One scene shows a character quoting the Bible while committing brutal acts. Another tries to organize a system of fairness. Someone else talks about spontaneous solidarity. None of it works. That’s the point. The system doesn’t allow for fairness. It rewards survival and punishes anything that looks like resistance. In that way, the movie touches on more than just food. It’s a stripped-down look at human behavior when there’s no reward for doing the right thing.

👉 FUN FACT: The script originally included more direct political commentary, but some parts were removed or softened during post-production. In an interview with The Verge, the filmmakers said they wanted the movie to work as a parable, not a lecture, so viewers could apply the meaning in different ways depending on their own beliefs and experiences.

Still Thinking About It Days Later

Even though I just watched The Platform, I already know it’s going to linger for a while. Some films fade from memory within hours. This one seems to press in the opposite direction. It grows louder in your thoughts the longer you sit with it. You remember certain images, certain lines, the way silence stretches in some scenes. It’s like the movie plants a feeling instead of a message, and that feeling stays.

I’ve already found myself thinking about it while standing in line at the store or scrolling through news about lockdowns and shortages. It made me rethink what fairness really looks like. It made me uncomfortable in the way that all good social horror does. This isn’t the kind of film you recommend lightly, but if someone asks, I’d say yes. Just not before dinner.

Here are a few thoughts I haven’t been able to shake:

➡️ The system was designed to fail

➡️ People were randomly assigned levels

➡️ No one was punished for hoarding

➡️ Change only started with force

➡️ The ones who tried to fix things lost the most

That list says more about the real world than I care to admit right now. Maybe that’s why the film works. It doesn’t give answers. It just shows you the problem in the most brutal way possible.

Questions Everyone Has After Watching

➡️ Is The Platform based on a true story?

No. It’s a fictional film created by Spanish screenwriters David Desola and Pedro Rivero, directed by Galder Gaztelu-Urrutia. It draws inspiration from social allegories and class commentary, but it’s not based on real events.

➡️ What was the point of the panna cotta?

The panna cotta was meant to be a message—a signal to the system that someone resisted. Whether that message reached anyone is left ambiguous on purpose.

➡️ Who survives at the end of The Platform?

Without spoiling too much, the movie ends in a way that invites interpretation. One character possibly makes it out, but the film never confirms what happens next.

➡️ Why is this movie considered disturbing?

It deals with starvation, violence, and the collapse of morality in a confined space. The lack of music, long silences, and realism all add to the discomfort.

➡️ What level does the platform go down to?

In the film, it’s revealed that there are at least 333 levels, each with two inmates. That’s a total of 666 prisoners—an intentional number that hints at themes of damnation and chaos.

➡️ Was the child real or a hallucination?

That’s one of the biggest debates among viewers. Some believe the child is real, representing hope. Others think she is a figment of guilt or desperation. The film never clarifies it.

Watch It Now or Avoid It Forever

This isn’t one of those movies you forget. If you’ve already seen it, you know exactly what I mean. If you haven’t, you’re probably wondering if it’s worth the mental load. I’d say yes, but only if you’re ready. Watch it with someone. Watch it when you have the headspace to process. Don’t watch it as background noise.

There’s something about The Platform that crawls under your skin. It’s not just the visuals. It’s the way it holds up a mirror and asks what you would do if it were you on level 100. Or level 200. Or lower. And it doesn’t let you look away until you’ve answered that.

Have you watched The Platform? Did you take away something completely different? Let me know what level you think you would have survived on. I’m not sure I’d last long, but I’d love to hear what you think.

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