Review
Culture
Music
Redemption
6 min read

Welcome to the revelation, good people

Mumford and Sons team up with Pharrell Williams. Belle Tindall unpacks their new track – Good People.
Two singers peform together. One in a white suit and stetson claps their hands. The other tilts the mic stand.
Pharrell Williams and Marcus Mumford perform Good People.

Listen to Good People

Whenever I bump into the familiar sounds of a Mumford & Sons song, it’s 2013 and they’re headlining the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury. I can close my eyes and see the whole scene before me; it’s all trumpets and tweed. But when I take a moment, and home in on the lyrics, it’s a different scene that I see. There’s a story in the Bible where a man, Jacob, spends a night physically wrestling with God, it’s all dirt and elbows, the created grappling with the creator. And, occasionally, when listening to Mumford & Sons’ catalogue, I feel as though I’m watching that scene play out. I’m listening to souls laid bare, I’m witnessing people gripping the divine in the dirt. I get the sense that their lyrics have been born of a wrestling match, not a writing session; they’re crafted by people who are limping out of a tussle with truth.  

Mumford & Sons – Marcus Mumford, Ben Lovett and Ted Dwane - seem to have largely grown out of their 2013 selves. But, if their new single is anything to go by, they haven’t grown out of wrestling their lyrics into existence.  

From the first line until its last, this song has but one message to proclaim: change, the redemptive kind, is at hand. 

Good People is the first track that they’ve released in five long years, and offered up in partnership with the mighty Pharrell Williams, it has been lorded as the collaboration that nobody saw coming. Speaking of the collaborative process, the band wrote that,  

‘...this song came together fast. Like, in a day. We haven’t relied on immediate instincts like that, really, since the very early days of our band. It has felt fast and loose and really, really fun.’ 

The additional presence of Native Vocalists, a six-piece choir hailing from Native American Tribes within the northern Great Plains, makes this track a mosaic of musical influences. But we should have expected this, Pharrell’s insatiable creative curiosity has taken him to some unexpected places, an alternative-folk song is merely his latest destination. What’s more, it is a destination that he has come to by way of gospel music, and it shows, both in style and lyrical substance.  

Of course, the song is peppered with the band’s signature religious language – there’s plenty of references to night and day, light and dark – all of which could have slid off a page of the Bible. Plus, Jesus is outright quoted in the second verse. It’s pretty obvious that the Biblical authors have their fingerprints all over this intriguing song. 

 But that’s still not what has caught my eye. Not quite.  

Rather, it’s the message that this song is announcing, and where such a message might just derive from. Because, from the first line until its last, this song has but one message to proclaim: change, the redemptive kind, is at hand. Things are about to get better.  

The chorus goes like this:  

good people been down for so long 
(Welcome to the revelation)  

and now it's like the sun is rising 
(Welcome to the revelation)  

good people been down for so long 
(Welcome to the revelation)  

and now I see the sun is rising 

It is the inevitability of this change, which is emphasised over and over again, that has me so intrigued. This change, the details of which are masterfully omitted (meaning this song can exist as a hopeful meta-anthem, free from the confines of prescriptive context), is as unavoidable as the sunrise. This change cannot be hindered, just as the breaking of the dawn cannot be hindered. One can stare at the midnight sky, enveloped by darkness, and still know with complete assurance that the sun will return. Morning will come; it is a certainty, which is an incredibly rare thing.  

Subsequently, this song isn’t a call to arms, Pharrell’s backing-vocal response to Marcus Mumford’s words is not ‘welcome to the revolution’, but ‘welcome to the revelation’. It is a call, not to make the change happen, but to witness it happen – pointing its audience not toward action, but toward hope. Hope in a redemption that is inevitable and a prevailing goodness that is written into the fabric of reality. It will come, it will be. And this subtle, yet salient, detail places this song in a very specific category of hopeful anthems. It sits with the likes of:   

Sam Cooke, who in 1964, declared that: 

 ‘it’s been a long time coming, but I know that a change is gonna’ come. Oh, yes it will.’  

Or Lauryn Hill, who wrote in 1998 that, 

 ‘everything is everything. What is meant to be, will be. After winter, must come spring. Change, it comes eventually’. 

These songs, written in the middle of the night, speak of the coming dawn.  

Which got me thinking, what taught us to do that? What taught us to believe that if it’s not good, it’s not the end? That if it’s not redeemed, it’s not over?  What taught Sam Cooke, amid such injustice and violence, to have such a defiantly hope-filled message to declare? What taught Lauryn Hill to simultaneously lament over the struggles faced by black, inner-city, communities in America, and yet affirm that ‘after winter, must come spring’? And what has taught Mumford & Sons, and Pharrell Williams for that matter, to announce that after such a ‘long night’, they can see that 'the sun is rising’

On what grounds can we possibly believe such a thing to be true? 

It's a big question. Perhaps one of the biggest. And while I’m weary of declaring that I have the answer (at least, on anyone’s behalf but my own), I certainly have a theory.  And I feel relatively confident putting it forward, considering his words pop up in the second verse of Good People.  

My theory, perhaps unsurprisingly, is Jesus; the ‘light that shines in the darkness’, the one that we’re told darkness has not, and cannot, ‘overcome’. The one whose entrance into the world was, as the Biblical story goes, as preventable as the dawn (these themes sound familiar to you?). The one who, for thousands of years, has had communities of people looking into the darkness and declaring ‘I beg to differ’.  

My theory is that Jesus taught us to believe redemption to be true. The things he did, the things he said, the things he fulfilled, but more than that – I think it is his death, and ultimately, his re-established life. I sense, in these songs, a hint toward the great story which underpins every other story. I hear the reverberations of Jesus’ resurrection in these lyrics.  

I’m just not convinced that we’d be so sure that redemption will get the final say if something, or rather someone, hadn’t shown such to be the case. And so, I suppose what I'm ultimately suggesting is that any 'revelation' that this song intends to welcome us into has a distinctive flavour of Jesus about it. 

I wonder whether Marcus, Ben, Ted and Pharrell would really believe that if something isn’t good, it isn’t over, had Jesus not taught them to.  

Watch Good People Live

Good People was first performed live at Pharrell Williams' Men’s Fall-Winter 2024 fashion show for Louis Vuitton. Williams is the creative director at the fashion house. Nativist Vocals perform first, followed by Williams and Mumford & Sons.

Review
Culture
Death & life
Digital
Film & TV
6 min read

Mickey 17: If we replicate then where does our humanity lie?

Bong Joon-ho has a stark warning about dehumanization.

Krish is a social entrepreneur partnering across civil society, faith communities, government and philanthropy. He founded The Sanctuary Foundation.

Two cloned humans stand side by side.
Warner Bros.

One of my favourite films of the last decade was Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite, a groundbreaking masterpiece in social commentary, humour and suspense. It won four Academy Awards in 2020, including Best Film - which was a first for a non-English language film - as well as numerous other accolades. So, when the director’s latest project, Mickey 17, was announced, I was eager to see if Bong could deliver another cinematic triumph of similar beauty, depth and precision.  

Mickey 17 took me by surprise. To be honest, the change in genre took some adjusting to, but as I recalibrated my expectations, I realised that the film nevertheless retained Bong’s trademark thought-provoking and daring exploration of identity, purpose and the human condition.  

Mickey 17 is in fact the eighth major film from Bong Joon Ho, but he is probably best known for Snowpiercer and Parasite. These films share common themes, particularly the stark divide between rich and poor and the rigid, two-tier nature of human society. In Parasite, we see the poor trapped in the flood plains of Seoul while the elite live in grand houses on hills. The film is structured around the visual metaphor of descent and ascent. In Snowpiercer, the class struggle is represented by the different carriages of the train, with the poor at the back of the train suffering in squalor while the privileged at the front enjoy luxury. 

Us and them 

In Mickey 17, this theme of societal hierarchy continues but in a futuristic, intergalactic setting. The divide now exists between the expendables—a class of human clones used for dangerous tasks—and the higher echelons of the spaceship crew, who are embarking on a mission to colonize a new planet.  

Mickey’s journey to the spaceship begins in poverty. He and a supposed friend start a business, funding it through a loan shark. When the business fails, the loan shark threatens their lives. Desperate, Mickey signs up for the space expedition, barely reading the fine print—only to discover that he has agreed to be an expendable. 

All expendables are humans who have been digitized – their entire bodies, brains, and psychologies are stored as data. When they die, they are simply reprinted, with only a week’s worth of memory lost. They exist to perform dangerous tasks such as testing the effects of radiation exposure, new vaccines, or extreme planetary conditions. In Mickey’s case, he has been fatally experimented on 16 times. He has been resurrected to his seventeenth version, and while he is still called Mickey, the question is whether this Mickey is the same Mickey who signed up for the space mission in the first place.  

What does it mean to be human? 

One of the film’s central philosophical questions is: What makes someone human? Mickey is biologically and mentally identical to himself, yet each iteration has a different personality. Some versions of him are more caring, others more aggressive or anxious. If he is just a replica, then where does his humanity lie? Is he just a product of his genetic code, or is there something more—something intangible—that makes him who he is? 

It is the same question that has been asked since the beginning of time. The Bible claims that the first human beings were created in the image of God, but what does that mean? Did that first iteration of humankind have the same power, the same worth, the same purpose as God? This was the forbidden fruit dilemma – Adam and Eve were already like God, but the serpent tempts them to eat the fruit so they could be like God in a different way.  

In our technologically advanced world, we are faced with the same fundamental difficulty in defining personhood: are we physical and spiritual beings with intrinsic dignity, infinite worth and unique purpose, or are we just biological replications existing for pre-programmed functions. If human cloning were to become common practice, would each clone be truly human?  

What is a human life worth? 

As far as the ship’s crew is concerned, Mickey is expendable. His pain, suffering, and even his existence are secondary to the mission. While the crew pursue the possibility of extending their own influence and power by colonising another planet, the expendables have no influence or power at all. The portrayal of this devaluing of human life is the most challenging of themes in Bong’s most popular films. In Parasite, the poor are only useful to the rich until they become an inconvenience. In Snowpiercer, the people at the back of the train serve those at the front, but they are seen as disposable. In Mickey 17, this exploitation is taken to its extreme—Mickey’s entire purpose is to die over and over again for the good of others. 

In a world that often assigns value based on productivity, Mickey 17 provides a stark warning about dehumanization. If we begin to measure worth based on what someone can do rather than who they are, we risk treating people as commodities. The Adam and Eve story turns that on its head. They were declared ‘good’ before they were given their roles to take care of one another and creation. Their function was an overflow of their dignity, not the other way around. And even after the forbidden fruit incident where the world was infected with sin and death there is a thread that reminds us that each life is precious. The Psalms declares that each of us is “fearfully and wonderfully made”. Jesus spent his life upholding the dignity of those society deemed inconvenient and expendable – the poor, sick and marginalised.  

What does death achieve? 

Despite dying multiple times, Mickey still fears death. Even though he knows he will be reprinted, the experience remains terrifying. No amount of technology, it seems, can remove the instinctive human fear of mortality. In fact the question that everybody that has contact with Mickey wants to ask is what death feels like, because everyone, whether a friend or simply a user of Mickey has to confront their own mortality. 
In the final act, Mickey makes a choice. Instead of living in an endless cycle of death and resurrection, he chooses to grow old with one person. He destroys the only means by which he could achieve immortality. The film is suggesting that relationship is more important that reusability. Finiteness—the ability to die permanently—is part of what makes life meaningful. 

The Bible teaches that there is an Adam 2.0. While the first Adam brought sin and death into the world, the second Adam – Jesus – brought redemption and eternal life. Both Jesus and Mickey choose death to break the cycle of suffering. But while Mickey chooses to abandon his contract as an expendable, Jesus willingly became expendable for the sake of others. His death was a once-for-all sacrifice that broke the power of death for all.  

What about resurrection? 

If there is life beyond this life what does it look like? Is it merely reprinting? A chance to try again? Or is there, as Adam 2.0 leads us to believe, a resurrection into a whole new world that even science fiction cannot begin to imagine? 

At its heart, Mickey 17 asks profound existential and ethical questions. It forces us to confront what it means to be human, what that human life is worth and how we deal with our mortality. It doesn’t provide us with answers but it invites us to wrestle with these crucial ideas. And in doing so, it points us back to the only hope that is worth having: a view of life where value is not earned, our existence is not expendable, and death is not the end. 

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