“Let’s make money!” and “One more game!” escape the mouth of a man dressed in a green jumpsuit. He has ten billion won (approximately US$6.8 million) of debt. It is his motivation to risk his life, but also his reason to not only risk but cause the end of hundreds of others.
He is willing to allow a bloodbath to further his own goals. So what happens when hundreds of debt-ridden and desperate people like him embark on a man-made crucible under the guise of child games, one that rewards few for the death of many?
Squid Game, Season 2.
The late 2024 season of the hit Korean drama is a litany of things. It’s a riveting adventure of previous Squid Game winner Seong Gi-hun (Lee Jung-jae) who, after his victory in a sanguineous arena, made a pilgrimage back. It’s a thought-provoking display of human sensation. It’s a creation that, despite maybe failing to be as compelling as its predecessor, engrosses the audience, clinging to their attention and dragging it to the sly “Next Episode” button in the bottom corner of the screen.
But, more than anything, Squid Game Season 2 is a profound reflection of human society, offering a unique view of innate human behavior that not only conveys the masterfully feigned feelings of its characters but also triggers the same raw emotions in its audience.
When Gi-hun arrived along with 455 other players, the population of the Squid Games operated as a mini-civilization. Like the wider world, the Squid Game microcosm experienced bouts of peace, violence, and relative indifference, chiefly between team “O” and team “X,” who wanted to continue or end the games, respectively. But, that’s not the only societal accuracy. The Squid Game community was truly complete – with elderly, young, pregnant, queer, aggressive, and submissive members. Even family units made it into the show with an unintentional mother-son duo sticking by each other throughout the series.
Like Season 1, Season 2 of Squid Game evoked empathy by focusing on the interactions in that small society – especially regarding those most vulnerable. The mother of a fellow contestant, Jang Geum-ja (Kang Ae-sim) accrued major emotional interest through her altruistic nature and, most importantly, humans’ primal impulse to protect and defend their elders. Or, equally possibly, she gained relevance through her copious showtime delegation. No matter the reason, Geum-ja drew the attention of the audience and, like Oh Il-nam in Season 1, secured their hearts.
What Season 2 reflected further, however, is the virtue of accepting others. Jang, when encountering a trans competitor, was initially distrustful of them, labeling them as “unsightly.” As the season progressed, the interactions between the two characters grew both in number and in warmth, and the pair became friends. Guem-ja’s inclusive progression sent a message of acceptance to the show’s audience, a direct response to the modern era of division.
Squid Game furthered the existing sympathy for its at-risk players by showcasing the heart-wrenching yet wholesome interactions between Geum-ja and her son, Bak Yong-sik (Yang Dong-geun). Their separations, although infrequent, brought to bear the immense, yet inherent, gravity of the games and the severe risk of not only losing one’s own life but a loved one’s, a fate that is simply unacceptable for a family member. The inclusion of the mother-son pair ratcheted up the show’s tension and tethered the viewers’ feelings to the characters’.
What really made the stakes of the show high, however, was the acting. From the cracks in Gi-hun’s voice when he scream-revealed his previous game victory (and its conditions) to the palpable fear visible in even the side characters during the six-legged pentathlon, even the smallest details sold the performance as genuine. Skillful acting extracted the despair, sorrow, and anger from the pits of the characters’ hearts. It was converted to video, then made the audience feel those exact same things.
Ultimately, Squid Game was a superb, and believable, representation of human tendencies. The players formed cliques, fought others, and carried out their most instinctual desires (save for procreation). There was constant pressure on loners to conform to a group or be left behind, which is true to life. There were those who sought to protect society’s vulnerable, and those who wanted to take advantage of them. There were those who were willing to take their chances and make, in their minds, small sacrifices for a comparably greater reward for themselves, and there were those who wanted to live with certainty. All that makes sense: in a life-or-death environment, people tend to revert back to their roots.
Perhaps the best part of Squid Game Season 2 was the lack of a clear good vs. evil situation. How much is a life worth, anyway, if that life is spent groveling and bowing to creditors as expenses rise and debt weighs heavy? For the organizers and many of the participants, the Squid Games held a last chance at financial stability and had only one outcome for their players: release from a life of misery.
Through the medium of either a bullet or stacks of paper, each participant would exit the Squid Games free from the immense burden of their crippling debt.
In part thanks to that potent idea, Squid Game has left its mark on global pop culture. The first non-English series to win a Screen Actors Guild award nomination, Squid Game has taken both the Western arts world and the internet by force. Through memes, Roblox and Fortnite spin-offs, parody videos, and more, the show has proven its capability to serve as not only a heartfelt amalgamation of intrinsic human nature but also a lasting influence on other media.
All said, Squid Game is not just a piece of entertainment worth all seven hours. It is a beautiful exhibit of people’s willingness to undertake morally dubious methods to gain wealth for themselves and, in contrast, their benevolent desires to do right by their societal peers.