An “A” for the Bee

My first month on Columbia’s campus certainly didn’t see me lost for words. Where conversations about arts and media flow like the runny vanilla milkshakes from JJ’s Place, whimsical debates could be found left and right. Without fail, those to do with film tended to share a common denominator: the gradual progression of “what’s new in theatres” to “what’s your take on Wes Anderson’s films” to “what movie did you grow up on” to Jerry Seinfeld’s Bee Movie. 

The Bee Movie had been absent from my life since the last day of 6th grade, when my math teacher put it on for us as a last-day treat, though she was probably just fed up with us. I remember being enthralled from the start; I couldn’t get over the protagonist’s name, Barry B. Benson (Jerry Seinfeld), ready to graduate from bee college and enter into his life’s work in honey production. Perhaps it resonated with me that day as I prepared myself to enter 7th grade, for which I had high hopes.

As my friends and I left Hewitt one evening, the model film conversation ran its course until I was asked what my favorite kids’ movie is. It was clear my friends didn’t share in my sentiment, placing the Bee Movie in far lower regard than I could conceive—one even called it “forgettable.” 

But I’m here now to take a stand in defense of Seinfeld’s Bee Movie. I reject the notion that it’s “forgettable.” Rather, I argue that Seinfeld’s Bee Movie is best appreciated as a surrealist comedy oddity—one that, whether by design or happy accident, satirizes conformism and ecological exploitation while peeling back the layers of human hubris.

Ripe with social commentary, Seinfeld’s work is far more than just anthropomorphic bees. Barry’s infectious sardonicism about bee life permeates throughout the opening scenes, effectively setting the tone for his rebellious escapades. His desire to challenge the establishment is apparent from the opening scene, where he chooses to wear a “black and yellow” sweater instead of a “yellow black” one. Though arbitrary, it shows he’s not like the other bees—Barry’s the only one who ever says he wants to “shake it up a little.” 

On his inaugural tour of Honex, the hive’s honey production corporation, Barry, unlike his friend, Adam (Matthew Broderick), is dismayed to learn that bees stick with the same job their entire lives. While the other bees cheer, the stone-faced Barry laments the cage he sees before him: he’s about to become part of a seemingly-inescapable machine for the rest of his life. 

At this point, Seinfeld’s screenplay introduces a central theme of the film—class consciousness. If the hive represents a society where class is nearly predetermined, then Barry’s hesitation to pick a determinate role echoes Marx’s theory of alienation from labor. Indeed, the hive’s government gatekeeps honey which the workers must buy back, preventing the bees from reaping the rewards of their own labor—the workers are certainly alienated from their efforts, leading to a prevailing ethos of disillusionment, towards which only Barry appears aware. Barry’s awareness symbolizes his desire for a hive where class mobility isn’t impossible. It’s clear he wants to forge his own path.

With this rebellion, Barry introduces his idealization of an escape from monotony by raising an existential question about the eminence of human purpose. In his essay, The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus proposed the idea that life is inherently absurd because humans are bound to seek meaning in a meaningless universe, and it is by accepting this inevitability that we may be happy. Honex can be likened to Sisyphus’s need to push the boulder up the hill: each bee must accept its role in honey production and do it perfectly, thereby becoming part of the machine and achieving a meager happiness. Of course, Sisyphus and the bees could choose to stop doing their jobs, but doing so would mean the rejection of one’s predetermined purpose, and with that, the meagre happiness that Camus promises. One must imagine the bees happy.

A self-reinforcing system of oppression grows all around Barry. The hive brushes off Barry’s concerns by telling him to start “thinking bee” in an attempt to reinforce his obedience through propaganda. Unlike Sisyphus’s punishment, however, the hive shrouds its absurdity in ideology and pride, blinding its citizens to their lost potential. As Barry and Adam exchange after learning they’re stuck with one job forever:

Barry: But Adam, how could they never have told us that?

Adam: Why would you question anything? We’re bees. We’re the most perfectly functioning society on earth.

Adam, having taken the blue pill, suggests there to be no way to achieve meaning beyond one’s work. Barry, on the other hand, challenges the status quo by finding escape in critique. He does not let the fact that only a select group of bees (“pollen jocks”) gets to leave the hive stop him from forging his own path, seeking adventure beyond the honeycomb walls. So, the Bee Movie converts the absurd into the political. Where Camus would ask us to accept conformity and labor as the human condition, Seinfeld implores us not to be content with what’s handed to us, but to seek more. In doing so, the film reorients the existential struggle and opens an alternative to monotony, implying that absurdity is not a fact of nature but a symptom of conformism. 

Seinfeld’s social commentary runs even deeper when Barry discovers the truth about honey. Having dared to defy convention by leaving the hive, he meets a florist named Vanessa (Renée Zelwegger). Notwithstanding the somewhat off-putting sexual tension between the two, their relationship lets Barry take his crusade against the status quo a step further. Walking through a supermarket aisle, Barry finds rows upon rows of honey bottled under different brands, including even “Ray Liotta Honey.” Because of the bee society’s refusal to venture into the unknown, their abuse persisted unabated, with honey stolen unbeknownst to them. Disgusted by his finding, Barry vows to achieve justice for bees, “shaking it up a little” bit more. 

Perhaps it’s here that the film’s surrealism intensifies. Humanity’s mass extraction of honey is presented not simply as theft but as a grotesque act of hubris, in which the labor of bees is commodified, bottled, and sold with no regard for the delicate balance of the natural world. Humans’ thanklessness and refusal to acknowledge that honey is a product of the bee race enrages Barry as he wakes to the tragic reality.

Investigating further, Barry finds out about the industrial-scale Honey Farms, where human-made hives keep bees captive as “honey-slaves.” At this point, Seinfeld cuts up the life of lies led by the local bees. He asks a resident:

Barry: Do you know you’re in a fake hive with fake walls? 

Resident Bee: Our queen was moved here. We had no choice. [pointing to a hanging photo of the hive’s queen bee dressed in purple regalia]

Barry: This is your queen? That’s a man in women’s clothes! That’s a drag queen!

In Seinfeld’s point-of-fact style of humor, Barry makes clear that the bees are living a lie by pointing out that their “queen” isn’t real, just an absurd fabrication. The humans exploited the bees’ fear of defying the establishment to keep them at bay—controlling the image of the queen means controlling the hive, and only Barry can see this. The Honey Farms sequence distills Seinfeld’s critique into a single image: the absurd reduction of nature’s laborers into industrial slaves, an allegory for both ecological exploitation and the perils of conformity. Workers can’t really get any more alienated from the fruits of their labor than this.

Yet Barry’s outrage does not stop at mere recognition—it escalates into action, as he turns to the human legal system to challenge this injustice. In a surreal twist, Barry files a class-action lawsuit against the human race for stealing honey without commission. What follows is the courtroom sequence, a spectacle that transforms his ecological awakening into a parody of justice itself, where celebrity cameos (Ray Liotta, Sting) and rhetorical theatrics reveal how easily law can bend to performance and power. Nervously, Adam asks if “multi-billion dollar food companies have good lawyers.” Sure enough, the honey companies’ lawyer (John Goodman) pulls up outside the courthouse in a Rolls-Royce with the license plate “ALIBUY”. This one-liner extends the Bee Movie’s social commentary to the commodification of the legal system, which enables verdicts to be bought and sold like supermarket honey. 

By dragging humanity into court, Barry reframes the bees’ plight as a struggle between the exploited class and their oppressors, turning his personal disillusionment into a class-conscious uprising. The courtroom becomes the stage where human hubris is finally put on trial, as Barry confronts a species that has long assumed dominion over nature. When all hope seems lost in the case, Barry finds an absurd breakthrough in the literal “smoking gun” used to subdue bees during hive maintenance. With that, the bees not only reclaim the factors of production but also begin to reap the rewards, and the power dynamics shift—Seinfeld’s ultimate slap-in-the-face to Camus. Winnie the Pooh is tranquilized by FBI agents. Sting is arrested for his “prance-about stage name.” A grandma is tackled by police after putting honey in her tea. Though surreal, the vindictiveness of civil court is put on full display to an ironically sobering effect. It becomes clear that neither the fallen power nor the mighty victor is immune to the dangers of hubris.

As a settlement, the honey returns to the hives, and the bees collectively decide to take a long break from honey-making. Ironically, everyone becomes worse off, as a lack of pollination causes the trees and flowers to die around the world. Embedded is the lesson that replacing the self-interest of one with that of another is certainly not an equalizer. Rather, humans and nature share a co-dependency, and should therefore be stewards to one another. Realizing this with Vanessa’s help, Barry quickly rallies the bees to save nature. Using the last remaining flowers in the world, the bees begin mass-pollinating and ultimately save the world. The honey production cycle is restored, though more harmoniously with humanity.

There is beauty in the Bee Movie’s full circle structure. Barry begins as a restless graduate refusing to accept a predetermined role in the hive, yet he ends by reinvigorating the system he once rejected after a dazzling struggle of anti-establishment disguised as class-consciousness. Nonetheless, he emerges with a sharpened awareness of justice and interdependence with humanity. This isn’t just a children’s movie: it’s a surrealist allegory for labor, conformity, and hubris. The narrative insists that neither blind obedience nor reckless rebellion can sustain or enhance a community; progress is formed in cooperative stewardship.

In this light, Seinfeld’s masterpiece is both satire and fable. The arrogance of human ecological exploitation and the absurdity of the institutions constructed by society (bee or not) come under fire, ultimately gesturing toward a hopeful lesson: that our survival depends on recognizing the absurdity of our condition not as fate, but as something constructed. Though at first it might appear a half-baked, whimsical oddity, the Bee Movie’s circularity and periodic sting embody the very qualities of surrealist satire that render it unforgettable.

William Green is a staff writer for Double Exposure and a freshman at Columbia College. When not sharing his passion for film, you can find him working at Columbia’s Model UN organization, swing dancing, or involved in rigorous Philolexian debate. He’ll probably be holding a coffee.

@williameduardogreen