Squid Game, the latest South Korean drama that has swiftly become a Netflix must-see, is undoubtedly familiar to you. Squid Game, which recently eclipsed Bridgerton as Netflix’s most-watched show of all time, is a cultural force if you’ve ever been on Twitter, seen Jimmy Fallon’s late-night show, or read the news from the KissAsian.
Hwang Dong-nine-episode hyuk’s Korean drama — or K-drama for short — features some of South Korea’s most well-known seasoned performers as well as up-and-coming stars. In Squid Game, Lee Jung-jae plays Gi-hun, a down-on-his-luck gambler and untrustworthy father and son; Kim Joo-ryoung plays a woman who uses her wits and keen observational skills to gain the upper hand whenever she can; and Anupam Tripathi plays Ali Abdul, a migrant worker and illegal immigrant from Pakistan willing to play a risky game to provide for his family.
Debt is a terrifying reality for millions of people all around the world, and the toll it takes on 456 strangers in Squid Game is palpable. The game’s participants are taken to an island off the Korean peninsula in the southwestern sea after losing a game of ddakji to a gorgeous, clean-cut salesperson played by Gong Yoo. They are forced to play childhood games till they die.
The drama has been a social media sensation since its premiere, with images of the characters’ deaths becoming popular memes, as well as Halloween costumes and mass purchases of luxury shoes. Doesn’t the show’s depiction of capitalism’s evil side, as well as the fact that it has become an inspiration for mass consumption and the fetishization of Asian people and their bodies, two of the societal ills it confronts, say a lot about society?
The horrific violence and mortality depicted in Squid Game, set against the show’s beautiful primary colors and soft pastels, are not only typical of Korean dramas and flicks, but also intriguing and unsettling — but not for the reasons you might think. One of the reasons I appreciate K-dramas is because they use these incredibly entertaining plays, complete with top-notch performances, stage design, and costuming, to provide insightful social commentary on issues such as history, culture, misogyny, unethical labor practices, mental health, and, yes, capitalism.
Whether it’s a rom-com, sci-fi, or horror film like Squid Game, this element of K-dramas makes the overall story more relevant and even educational. These shows aren’t intended to be global sensations; they’re created with Korean audiences in mind and relate to their unique experiences, but they also appeal to fans outside of Korea. As someone who is unfamiliar with the culture, my interest is piqued when characters mention real-life historical figures like Yu Gwan-sun, a venerated martyr in Korea’s battle for independence from Japan. These references help me grasp not only the fictional worlds created in these series, but also Korean history and culture.
It’s impossible not to notice how the temptation of a giant plexiglass piggy bank containing 45.6 billion won hanging over the heads of the game’s 456 participants is a comment on how ordinary citizens are told that if they keep reaching, working, and fighting harder, they can achieve a level of wealth that only a few people in society will ever achieve when watching Squid Game. It’s also a taunt that most people have heard before. Politicians and CEOs of big organizations emphasize that hard work pays off, that anyone may achieve success and fortune if they work hard enough. Despite committing years, if not decades, to this purpose, it rarely succeeds. After years of contributing to a company’s bottom line, workers are sometimes fired, leaving them with nothing except broken hearts, souls, and bodies. This was the case with Gi-hun in Squid Game.
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