**Spoiler Warning**
If you haven’t yet watched “Squid Game,” Netflix’s most streamed show of all time, you’re missing out big time. As a horror and thriller fanatic, I’m all too familiar with the death game trope — bloody, brutal puzzles where only the most intelligent characters will survive. However, “Squid Game” is not quite that. I’ll be the first to say I didn’t enjoy the show’s second season quite as much, but it’s far from the terrible season many online claim it to be.
But first, a recap of the show’s premise: Targeting the financially desperate living in the poorest neighborhoods of South Korea and drowning in several billion won — the country’s official currency — worth of debt, the game-makers offer the residents a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to play children’s games for a prize of 45.6 billion won (roughly 30 million USD to save you a Google search). The catch? Elimination becomes synonymous with death, and for all that the games are supposedly grounded in equality, the games are really just based on luck.
In the second season, the rules (and games) are different. Should the players vote to end the games and return to their former lives, the money is distributed equally among all those remaining, whereas previously, it went to the families of the deceased. To further the tensions between those who choose to stay and those who want to leave, each player must wear an “X” or an “O” badge — a visual reminder of their otherness to their supposed opponents. And, after every game, they vote again.
Gi-hun (“Player 456”), the protagonist who won the game in the previous season, returns in an attempt to save all the new players and defeat the organization from within. He is neither a genius nor an athletic prodigy, simply lucky (i.e., the glass bridge game). Unbeknownst to him, In-ho, the frontman himself, has inserted himself into the game as Player 001, sabotaging Gi-hun’s attempts at every turn.
Only 25% of players die during the iconic Red Light, Green Light game under Gi-hun’s instruction, compared to 50% the previous season, and morale is further boosted with each team cheering the other on in the Six-Legged Pentathlon. But whatever camaraderie exists in the early stages disappears quickly as the players begin turning against one another. Each vote lost to the “O’s” crushes Gi-hun’s faith in humanity more. After all, for one to win, others must lose.
It is perhaps difficult to understand the sheer desperation that creates such brutality, where it is better to die alone in the arena than face another day in the real world. The genius of the characters comes into play here. It’d be impossible to talk about all of the characters, given the larger cast, but the following are the highlights:
The man known as “The Recruiter” appears in the opening episode, and despite how little screen time he has, he is one of the most memorable characters in the entire show. He spends his days gambling with potential players through games of “Ddakji,” and off the clock, he makes the homeless choose between bread and a lottery ticket, then shames them for their obvious choice. To him, they are nothing more than scum on earth, blaming them for their situation rather than the systemic issues that create such disparities in the first place.
For his part, he once worked for the games as a low-ranking pink circle soldier and made his way up to the highest (indicated by a square) by shooting his father. His current role as a recruiter points to his ranking within the system; the more blindly the soldiers execute orders in exchange for humanity, the further they go. It’s a shame he goes out in the first episode after a round of Russian roulette with Gi-hun, but perhaps that also says something about how little he values even his own life.
The trio — Gi-hun, Jun-ho and In-ho — present a strange dynamic. Even after getting shot by his brother In-ho, Jun-ho refuses to give up his search for In-ho and protects his brother’s identity as the frontman. For all that he might value justice as a police officer, it all boils down to saving his own family above all others.
A popular theory is that the devious captain who’s been leading him astray the entire season is also working for the games; in other words, In-ho himself ensures that, after being shot non-fatally, Jun-ho will never again step foot on the island and put his life at risk. Jun-ho seems to be the only character with any emotional sway over the otherwise stoic frontman, and I’m eager to see their inevitable reunion in Season 3!
A previous winner himself who couldn’t even use the reward money for his sick and pregnant wife, who died while he was in the game, In-ho now perpetuates the system. During his time with Gi-hun, his mindset seems to shift, that is until Gi-hun suggests sacrificing some of the “X’s” on his side to take down the leaders — echoing his union’s hopeless fight against a powerful administration years earlier. If even he can so easily use the lives of others for his own agenda (however noble), then perhaps In-ho’s faith in humanity was truly misplaced.
In terms of new characters, my favorites are Dae-ho (“Player 388”) and Hyun-ju (“Player 120”). Both having military experience (given South Korea’s mandatory service), Dae-ho proudly brandishes his Marine’s tattoo and Hyun-ju conceals hers until the big fight. Yet, all of Dae-ho’s bravado hides a deep-seated shame in his identity.
As the only son with four sisters, he struggles against a father who pushed him to join the military in the first place. Whether it is a case of stolen valor as some suggest, or simply overcompensation for his perceived lack of masculinity, it’s devastating to see him flinch away from Hyun-ju in the last episode. When he volunteers to help Gi-hun on his mission, he suddenly stops upon returning to the safe room, too shaken to bring the extra ammo back to those still amid battle. Hyun-ju comes back to retrieve the supplies herself and he flinches away as if expecting to be beaten for his perceived cowardice.
Hyun-ju represents another facet of identity struggles, though on the other end of the spectrum.
As a transgender woman dreaming of a life in Thailand after paying off her surgeries, she too has experienced the struggles of simply being who she is. She lost her job, her friends and all those in her life. She must prove herself to the other players to be accepted as a valuable teammate, even when the games are a matter of life and death. That single moment when her friend Young-mi (“Player 095”), a terrified girl who wants nothing more than to leave, cries out “unnie” (an honorific used by Korean women to refer to their older female friends) before her death, is an acknowledgment of Hyun-ju’s status as a woman and her friend.
And there is no better duo this season than Geom-ja (“Player 149”) and her son Yong-sik (“Player 007”). In no debt herself, Geom-ja is simply in it for Yong-sik, who lies about how much he owes. Even so, they’re attached at the hip and fiercely protective of one another, which makes his ultimate semi-betrayal in the Mingle game all the more painful. Each player stands on a spinning platform and must find a group with a given number of members and lock themselves in a room when the music stops. Naturally, this means players abandon each other and force others out of rooms to save their own skin. As an older woman, Geom-ja burdens Yong-sik, who might otherwise find teammates easily. As the clock ticks down and two other players tear him from his mother and drag him to a room, he stops fighting back and leaves her to die. Their shared grief — hers in the form of a refusal to accept what happened and his, an apology that will never be enough — strengthens their bond, at least in the moment. In the end, will he sacrifice himself for her, or leave her behind?
The most interesting character of the season, though, is No-eul (“Number 011”), a woman recruited as a pink triangle soldier — the executioners. A North Korean defector desperately searching for the daughter she left behind, she seems to have been in the know of the games for years. Outside of that, she is trapped in a dead-end job, seemingly living out of a van.
We already got a glimpse of behind-the-scenes operations in Season 1 thanks to Jun-ho’s investigation, but now we can see the faces behind the masks. These soldiers are really not all that different from the players — entertainment for the VIPs, plucked from the most impoverished areas of society. To that end, I’m curious what determines who becomes a player and a soldier, and more so, the fate of Gyeong-seok (“Player 246”), who works in the same park as her and joined the games to afford his sick daughter’s treatment. This entire season, No-eul has come across as cold and ruthless, unwilling to support the underground organ trade, but showing no hesitation in killing.
I could go on for ages about each character and their significance, but I’ve summarized the highlights here. And, despite the strange decision to split the season into two parts, hence its abrupt ending (which I chalk up to Netflix’s corporate greed), I can’t say I’m not looking forward to how this iconic show will finish!