Warning: This review contains spoilers!

“One more game! No more, no less!”

Season two of “Squid Game” picks up the story of Seong Gi-hun (Lee Jung-jae). When we reunite with him, he is left stranded in an airport terminal, about to visit his estranged daughter he had spent the entirety of the previous season trying to see again. 

He is racked by immense guilt as the sole victor of the Squid Game, which takes place on a secret island where 456 impoverished and desperate civilians are made to play children’s games to win a grand prize of 45.6 billion won at the behest of the Pink Guards and the esoteric Front Man, Hwang In-ho (played by Lee Byung-hun).

The catch? Those who lose are killed, their bodies harvested for organs and their bodies are incinerated. Gi-hun, having witnessed the deaths of close friends Kang Sae-byeok and Cho Sang-woo, feels wholly undeserving of his newly-acquired fortune.

Gi-hun makes an impulsive call to the Front Man to compensate for their losses. He declares his intention to take down the games once and for all. This season follows Gi-Hun’s attempts to make good on this promise, as he has taken his billions and reinvested it into finding his way back onto the island where the games take place. 

While season two succeeds at reclaiming its entertainment value through the novelty of its concept and a refreshed cast full of stars, it doesn’t quite pack the same punch. It sacrifices opportunities to expand its commentary on inequality, morality and voyeuristic media culture (as well as the scope of its worldbuilding) for moments that feel identical to its predecessor. As a result, it lacks a clear identity of its own, coasting on previous success at the detriment of a narrative that has the opportunity to do and say much more.

I wasn’t a fan of season two; it had the promise — but not quite the image — of something that could’ve been much larger in its storytelling ability. “Squid Game” can be an enduring piece of social commentary, if only it can muster the strength to play a different game.

Perhaps the highlight of this season is, ironically, the first two episodes (“Bread and Lottery”) and (“Halloween Party”) from which we spend time outside of the games and in the unwelcoming arena of the real world. As opposed to the claustrophobic environment of the games, the metropolitan streets of South Korea feel more daunting. I often found myself asking not “who’s going to win?” but “what’s next for our protagonist?”

This was a welcome change of pace for a series whose formula is baked into the story structure itself.

This is matched with the dingy aesthetics of Gi-hun’s motel, which greatly contrasts with the bright aesthetics of the island. His desire to tear down the games is intrinsic to his reason for existing: there is nothing else for him, not even his daughter (whose now-fluent English compels images of childhood without him). His motivation in this round of games is clear: he wants a face-to-face with the man behind it all.

However, I wonder if the series is willing to give him the space to breathe as an individual. The one phone call he makes to his daughter led me to believe there is room for his character to grow and to become the father the audience knew he could be from the first few episodes of this series. However, that phone call is never followed up on within this season’s six-episode run, leaving much to be desired. Every contestant in the games is given a clear motivation to be there. I wish Gi-hun’s could be more grounded in a more identifiable struggle.

The entertainment of these introductory episodes is mostly owed to the reintroduction of the Recruiter/Salesman (played by Gong Yoo). Formerly a glorified side character in the previous season, the first episode of the second season gives more space for his personality to shine through, turning him into a callous representation of the games themselves. His off-kilter offer of a loaf of bread or a lottery ticket to the unsuspecting homeless is a clever introduction to a core theme of this season: the irrationality (and inhumanity) of desperation is a gamble. 

In a brilliantly delivered monologue, the Recruiter tells Gi-hun the story of how he got his position by murdering his father as a Pink Guard. It’s a deeply inhumane narrative that makes you question the forces at play: is there no moral floor to which these people are willing to stoop to prove a point? There’s a clear contempt for those who the Recruiter (and therefore VIPs) see as less deserving. It’s not about opportunity, but spectacle. 

The return of Hwang Jun-ho (played by Wi Ha-joon), the rogue undercover officer who was left for dead by his brother In-ho, sparked a long-anticipated alliance between him and Gi-hun — two characters who had spent most of their stories in separate realms. This left me excited for a story primed to take familiar elements in a bold direction. 

However, this excitement was regrettably short-lived.

What this season gets right is a bold cast of versatile characters that form natural alliances and rivalries. Notable among the new contestants are Cho Hyun-Ju (Park Sung-hoon), an ex-marine who is competing to afford their gender transition; Thanos (Choi Seung-hyun), a disgraced pop star who is looking to recoup lost fortune and clout; Lee Myung-gi (Yim Siwan), a former crypto influencer who easily finds enemies with those whom his dubious advice has impoverished and Kim Jun-hee (Jo Yu-ri), a quiet woman who competes while facing the hardship of pregnancy. 

Central to the structure of this gauntlet of games — even more so than last season — is the vote: remaining contestants can cast a ballot in favor of continuing the games or dropping out with the existing prize money. The recurring elections cause conflict in character relationships. Most memorable among these is that between Hyun-ju and her found friend Kim Young-mi (Kim Si-eun). Hyun-ju’s decision to stay makes her question whether her fight for societal acceptance is more important than the unconditional acceptance of her friend.

I cannot talk about season two without mentioning Thanos at least once. He is quite possibly the most memorable character in the entirety of the series: a rapper who is, in equal measures, unapologetically evil yet wholly unaware of what’s going on. His callousness evokes that of last season’s Jank Deok-su (Heo Seong-tae), albeit with more color and showmanship. His introductory moments — flirting with Player 196 before blithely knocking out a row of contestants (with little more than a s***-eating grin on his face) — tell you that this is an individual with enough humor to balance his lack of remorse.

However, the vote also shows a core limitation: the series’s repetitive structure. The series seems to acknowledge this, too, with a sharp cutaway to a timelapse of the vote score increasing (perhaps to save the audience from more needless bickering and chants).

This is also true of the games themselves; while the series ventures to introduce new tasks for this new cast to shine in, I can’t help but ask whether or not this continued focus on “who wins?   who loses?” is wholly necessary or adds to the experience of the series. 

The six-legged pentathlon is eerily reminiscent of the previous season’s tug-of-war, where inconvenient extras are gunned down in batches for the sake of time. The game “Mingle” elicited in the characters the same moral questions as the iconic glass bridge: who gets to die so the rest get to live? 

It’s bloody, it’s shocking, yet it feels all too familiar.

I will give the season credit for the inclusion of its spectacle of a series finale: an all-out, bloody rebellion led by Gi-Hun to take the control room and confront the Front Man. It’s a brutal display of the sheer might and machinery these players are up against, and the production spares no cost in its portrayal.

It’s complemented by the triumph of a cast, whose waning confidence in their own ability becomes anxiety-inducing. As the ever-lovable yet naive Kang Dae-Ho (Kang Ha-neul) rushes back to the dormitory to collect spare cartridges while facing paralyzing bouts of stress, you can see the players’ optimism and hope drain from their faces. It’s over; they played the games and lost.

I’d have hoped that the series finale would end on a much more decisive note, with Gi-hun and his affable drinking buddy Park Jung-bae (Lee Seo-Hwan) making their way into the control room. However, the show has the integrity to let bitter reality set in. Jung-bae is shot dead, and Gi-Hun is apprehended. In the words of the Front Man: “The game will not end unless the world changes.”

There were many loose plot threads this season, which I hope are followed up on June 27’s follow-up release of season three. However, as they stand right now, they are testaments to the myriad of different ways this story could have progressed, leaving the season a half-narrative, hardly justifying its promotion as a full season of the show.

The major thread that sticks out to me is the inclusion of Kang No-eul (played by Park Gyu-Young), a North Korean defector-turned-Pink Guard who is looking to reunite with her child who was left behind at the border. Turning to the games for employment, No-eul becomes enemies with those involved in the organ trade. She interferes with their business by making quick executions of contestants who are intentionally kept alive for harvesting. 

The Pink Guards, whose inclusion thus far has been relegated to nameless masks and sparing bits of dialogue, have seldom had moments that defined who they are. This is why No-eul’s inclusion had, at first, struck me as a paradigm shift for the Squid Games; perhaps introducing a fleshed-out B-plot that would flesh out the story from the other side of the gun. 

However, her time in the series is sparse, with very little screen time dedicated to anything beyond setting up a conflict between her and her more scalpel-happy colleagues. It’s disappointing for a character whose inclusion could have been an inroads to developing the larger lore and thematic questions of the games. How are the guards chosen? What are the moral compromises they make in their line of work? 

The strongest inclusion of this series is that of In-ho as a contestant rather than as the boss. He is the most intriguing character of the series: a contestant who experienced the horrors of the game and still chose to become its ringmaster. Perhaps the most open-ended question of the series is how exactly he came to be in that position. I was particularly focused on how the two victors (him and Gi-hun) would relate to each other as foils.

The two characters develop an unexpected kinship throughout the six-episode run; their skepticism of each other quickly fades as they confide in and begin to trust each other. In-ho shares a rare moment of vulnerability with Gi-hun, a glimpse into his humanity, by relating the story of the debt he had taken on to save his wife and unborn child. They share unconditional support for one another’s goals, which becomes all the more saddening as In-ho — putting an abrupt end to the contestant’s insurrection — puts the mask back on to chastise Gi-hun for believing he was anything but another contestant: “Player 456. Did you have fun playing the hero?”

His capacity for empathy makes his dual role as executioner and the executed all the more unnerving. He’s fully aware of the suffering he is contributing to yet keeps the ball running. I sincerely hope we learn more about him in the coming season.

Debuting in September 2021 as if lightning in a bottle, “Squid Game” was bizarre and refreshing in both concept and execution, propelling itself to Netflix’s most-watched series and becoming a global phenomenon: inspiring a large scale (if not fully self-aware) reality series, as well as a myriad of memes and branded content.

However, its success blindsighted that of its creator, Hwang Dong-hyuk, who has pocketed a very small sum of money compared to the millions of dollars that the streaming platform has made off the back of his labor. Dong-hyuk was unsure if the narrative of the first season warranted a follow-up and has admitted to needing the residuals from a second season to justify his investment. 

It’s poetic how a series whose premise is based on the dehumanization of the lower class is a prime example of those same forces. This is why I can’t help but look at the second season as a lukewarm imitation of the first, hoping to recreate its runaway success by parading around the same moments and aesthetics that captured the imaginations of a global audience drowning in the same struggles as its creator.

This is not to disparage the work of Dong-hyuk, however, whose efforts in the second season reveal a radical ability to empathize with the myriad ways poverty and desperation manifest in those who suffer. And while “Squid Game” shows the monstrous ways humans can behave towards one another, it never gives itself to a misanthropic worldview nor revels in the spectacle of its own brutality. 

Final Score: 6.5/10