‘Squid Game’ returns with a vengeance

Squid Game 2 represents not only a continuation, but an evolution—and in the process, an escalation. The show has been canonized as a gamified capitalism allegory, and while this is undoubtedly true, what makes it tick is not its symbolism, but rather, the literalism that goes hand-in-hand with the symbolic. The games aren't just representative of predatory free-market ills, but play like a logical outcome of a festering status quo that renders its proletariat increasingly desperate, and its bourgeoisie increasingly inhumane. It exists in an ostensibly real world—our world, with real South Korean locations, neighborhoods, and socio-economic problems—and it's made possible by the same mechanics of willing, desperate self-debasement for cash that birthed other such games, and even gave rise to Parasite (a prism for class awareness, whose memes continue unfettered). It’s something that would realistically happen. In fact, it has.

However, the show's latent themes and double entendres have been laid out already, and the appeal of a second season is witnessing what else might happen in this pre-existing setting. The audience no longer needs gradual exposition to clarify the latent class metaphors, which leaves the other major reason it worked: its deft and riveting character drama. Of course, the vast majority of the show's characters died in season one, leaving only protagonist Gi-hun, secretive ringmaster Hwang In-ho (Byung-hun), and the latter's law enforcement brother Jun-ho (Wi Ha-joon). However, the new ensemble it introduces simultaneously expands and capitalizes on why the original characters worked.

This season is a little shorter than last time—seven episodes instead of nine—and with a third and final season arriving in 2025, you can be sure that Gi-hun's revenge mission doesn't quite come to a close. However, the exact nature of that mission, how he ends up in the games again, and what exactly he's been doing with his 45.6 billion won (about $31.4 million) are all delightful discoveries. In fact, much of the season turns on fun reveals, but even while carefully avoiding spoilers in this review, there remains much to discuss.

The show is as thematically rich as it ever was (perhaps even more so) while providing some novel visual panache. The individual games range between "similar to what we've seen" and "variations on a theme," but what has changed is the downtime between them. Surviving players can still cast a majority vote to halt the contest after each round, but this time, leaving mid-way comes with splitting the existing prize money up to that point. Not only is it no longer all-or-nothing, the visual and narrative mechanics of the voting have changed as well—the way they would for an actual reality show.

The need to keep things interesting (for both the VIPs watching in the series, as well the audience at home) results in a vote "for" or "against" continuing being accompanied not only by enormous red and blue lights respectively (a sly nod to The Matrix), but the division of the entire group into two factions, with each one sporting red or blue patches. The factionalism foisted on the players begins to sow further discontent—a close look at the mechanics of "divide and conquer" in action—and as the games proceed, the show's economic metaphors become entangled with distinctly political ones as well. Beyond a point, it's a show about voting, and the discontent that powerlessness can breed.

However, as with season one, none of this would be remotely interesting without dynamic characters. Lee makes a welcome return as a more driven Gi-hun, whose obsession with retribution causes friction with the altruism and class consciousness he now espouses. In-ho has a much bigger role this season—which is to say, we see more of Byung without the mask, as he affords the vicious mastermind surprising depth and humanity. And Jun-ho gets an interesting initial arc as well, though his physical distance from the plot this time around results in less of an active part, at least for now.

Then again, it can be said this sacrifice pays dividends, if one takes a glance at the new contestants. One of them, as it happens, is a returning minor character from outside the games last season, whose arrival immediately injects palpable emotional stakes. But the newcomers all add vivid hues as well. Season one was fundamentally about sons who had disappointed their mothers: Gi-hun and his childhood best friend Cho Sang-woo (Park Hae-soo). This time, a mother-son duo—Jang Geum-ja (Kang Ae-shim) and Park Yong-sik (Yang Dong-geun)—actually ends up in the game together, unbeknownst to one another, allowing us a more tangible and often gut-wrenching look at how this dynamic plays out.

One of the new players is a transgender woman, Hyun Ju. Although she's played by cisgender male actor Park Sung-hoon—Hwang claims to have wanted authentic representation, but cited oppressive local norms as a reason an out trans actress couldn't be found—she ends up one of the most surprising and meaningful characters. Not only does Park embody earnestness and nerves, but a lived sense of physical reality, through body language that feels at war between trepidation and fearless self-expression. What's more, the character's framing appears to guide some of the other players (and in the process, the audience) to reductive assumptions about her reasons for participating, before subverting them with the same dramatic nuance for which the show isn't nearly praised enough.

Perhaps the looniest new addition, however, is an obnoxious young rapper named Thanos, who styles himself after the Marvel villain via purple hair, and nail polish in the color of the glowing Infinity Stones on his gauntlet. Whether he speaks (or raps) in English, Korean, or a mix of the two, he's immediately sexist and repulsive, and becomes part of an unexpected trend this season: an occasionally misanthropic streak, embodied by characters who, for lack of a better term, straight up suck.

There's a self-styled shaman who speaks (and condescends) in riddles. There's a crypto bro, whose ill-informed advice on YouTube ruined other people's lives (how timely!). There are former Marines who puff their chests and project their machismo across the room, only to reveal an inner cowardice. Had these kinds of characters dominated season one, it would have been a very different show, but having seen how the games shatter people's lives before ending them, introducing them at this juncture results in disorienting cognitive dissonance over who we want to see live or die. It's hard not to get swept up in Squid Game 2, and part of this is being fooled by Hwang's most effective magic trick without even realizing it: being made to root against the success of people crushed by the system's boot-heels; being divided and conquered by the show's invisible villains too. One of them, a masked soldier, even becomes a central character of sorts.

Hwang, who has written and directed all of the show's sixteen episodes, remains a master at twisting screws at just the right moment, keeping his camera observant, but ready to strike with sudden pans and push-ins when it's most appropriate. This season veers more fearlessly between tones, dragging us through whiplash-inducing highs and lows for the characters, as joy and terror start to exist in close proximity. It's a trip, physically and emotionally, and there are very few stretches that aren't exciting or anxiety inducing, if not both at once.

The new episodes retain the thrilling spirit of the first season, but its many individual departures build to something new and fascinating. The show's more political point of view is a direct outgrowth of its premise, which culminates in its most surprising astonishing divergence yet, in terms of what form its climactic episode takes. The less said about it in advance the better, but where there's discontent, there also exists the potential for revolution. Few upcoming shows are likely to be as rousing as Squid Game 2.