Squid Game feels like a kaleidoscope. Despite a relatively straightforward story with a strong cast and a theme that feels brutally obvious, viewers walk away from the show with different opinions. A continued frustration for myself and many viewers is the number of people who simply saw this show as a fun, albeit brutal, fictional game show. It’s this kind of thinking that spawned Mr. Beast’s now infamous video and Amazon rip-off, as well as the Netflix reality show Squid Game: The Challenge. The latter was wildly popular, reaching number one in 74 countries according to Tudum.
It may have been this response that fueled some of creator Hwang Dong-hyuk’s writing decisions in seasons two and three, which were shot back-to-back in 2023. These seasons follow Gi-hun’s return to the games, alongside Jun-ho, who is still looking for the island and his brother, who is the game master for the games. The writing barely stops short of being preachy, as characters decry the existence of the games as a force of injustice in the world, but still one that desperate people feel they must participate in, as they have no other options.
If you weren’t paying attention, Squid Game is about capitalism.
I talked a little bit about South Korea’s wealth inequality in my Canon piece about Snowpiercer, but the short version is that things are rough in South Korea for the middle class. The poverty gap index was 39% in 2014, and according to the IMF, South Korea’s wealth inequality is the poorest among 22 Asian-Pacific countries. This situation informs Dong-hyuk’s writing, and the entire story is shaped by a left-leaning political perspective about wealth within a system where a majority of a country’s money is held by a small number of people. In short, the Squid Game is South Korea, and everyone living and working there is a player.
In the first season, Gi-hun is a naïve participant, unaware initially of the danger the games pose to him and the other players. Throughout the games, he learns the evils the game master will go to, and manages through the help of others to not lose his humanity in the process. Season one ends with a choice: embrace the rest of your life and turn a blind eye to the continued human suffering, or destroy the games once and for all.
Seasons two and three offer different questions for the viewer. Season two asks us how do we end an oppressive system, and season three asks what we do when the revolution fails. Whatever your political beliefs, it’s a compelling narrative that continues to ask us to view the characters not just as individuals but as players in an apparatus that exists beyond their immediate control. I’m going to address some complaints I’ve seen about Squid Game that I think demonstrate a real misunderstanding of what the show is saying and what the overall themes are. I’m going to try and stay spoiler-free until I discuss the ending, but if you’re concerned, just watch the show and come back. It’s worth the 22-episode binge.
“Jun-ho’s story is weak.”
This is the only criticism I agree with for the most part. Jun-ho’s story, which is a vital part of season one, takes more of a back seat in the final two seasons. He becomes much less a character and more of a plot device, a vehicle for other actions to occur outside of the games. While the games’ story is brisk-paced, flashes to Jun-ho and the gang trying to find the island feel slow by comparison. Even though there are interesting moments, it definitely is the show’s weakest piece, but still necessary for the inevitable conclusion.
“The characters have incomplete arcs.”
This criticism is true in a sense. Character arcs are often cut short here by untimely deaths due to the nature of the story. I don’t think this is a bad thing, though. Another great example of something similar is Rue’s death in The Hunger Games, which happens before she gets much time to do much other than slightly develop as a character. It’s a good story choice, though, and I think largely, the character deaths in Squid Game are purposeful to serve the larger narrative. To serve the larger political view the show is trying to make, the deaths are often the weaker or marginalized groups who have less physical or social power. It feels cruel, and that’s the point.
“Gi-hun’s character does a hard left turn at the beginning of season 3.”
Season two’s ending leaves Gi-hun in a really low place. Ever the optimist in the previous seasons, season three finds him gutted, raw, and eventually, angry. He’s looking for someone to blame for the events at the end of season two, and when he finds someone who fits the bill, he locks in on a dead pursuit.
Personally, I don’t see how this character change doesn’t make sense given the circumstances of the show. Gi-hun has seen his world rocked, and has continuously seen people die at the hands of the games and his decisions. A dark night of the soul for his character was overdue in my opinion, and it gives the other cast members a chance to hog some screen time and develop a bit more in his absence.
“The ending is stupid.”
This is the critique that made me write this piece, because it’s just so disconnected from any kind of critical viewing experience. (Last warning for spoilers before I discuss the ending)
In the final game, the remaining players play “the squid game,” which involves players shoving one another out of the circle to get them “out” of the game. Unfortunately for all, they’re playing atop high towers, meaning eliminated players will fall to their deaths. The final confrontation is between Gi-hun and Myung-gi, whose approach to the whole game has been brutal utilitarianism. Myung-gi wants to kill the baby in order to save them both. Gi-hun, who is fiercely guarding player 222 (a baby born in the games whose mother was killed), tussles with Myung-gi, who falls to the ground. Unfortunately, though, per the rules, one player still must die.
Here, Gi-hun chooses to sacrifice himself to save the baby. At the same time, the island is found by Jun-ho, and the self-destruct must be initiated. The game master, though, is disturbed by Gi-hun’s death and his final words, changes his perspective moving forward. The show ends with the game master quitting, bringing Gi-hun’s winnings to his estranged daughter, only to see a new American version of the games starting in Los Angeles. His eyes are filled with disgust as he makes eye contact with a new initiate, and the camera cuts to black.
While I can understand disagreement with the finale, its point is obvious. Anyone who’s seen a movie before knows Gi-hun isn’t going to come out of the games a second time, and the idea of sacrifice for the next generation to live better is in line with the show’s larger theme. So too are Gi-hun’s final words, where he makes eye contact with the camera and states, “We are humans, not horses. Humans are…” and then he jumps. It’s a stunning emotional scene, and a perfect end to his arc.
The mention of America too feels purposeful, as America has its own wealth inequality issues and a growing impoverished class. Cynically, though, this was added so Netflix can do an American spinoff. Still, it somehow manages to work with everything else for a solid ending.
In short, I’m not sure what people mean when they say the ending is stupid. It’s nuanced, and it’s never fun to watch a main character die, but this was always how it was going to end. The games were destroyed, and people were better off for it, even though the price was incredibly high.
In Short
Squid Game isn’t for everyone. It is The Hunger Games turned up to eleven, and its violence and preachy messaging won’t sit well with everyone. Regardless though, it’s a solid piece of television that I hope will inspire more outside-of-the-box new ideas for storytelling and big picture theming across multiple seasons. A lot of people didn’t like the last season or the ending, but I think this is less indicative of the overall quality of the show and more akin to people’s individual tastes and longing for more action and spectacle than the conclusion of this show was ever going to have.
I hope we get more shows like it, or at the very least, more directors brave enough to just put their epic narrative out there, even if they’re misunderstood.