The secret sauce of Netflix’s Squid Game is the crafty way it balances the thrills of a binge-worthy streaming drama with the brutal agony and potent social commentary of down-on-their-luck characters risking their lives in a potentially lucrative series of amped-up children’s games. It’s a tricky thing to navigate, the inherent tragedy of it all never dampening our curiosity about how the arena will test its players next. My main question going into the megahit’s third and final season: How will creator and writer Hwang Dong-hyuk keep piquing that curiosity without making us numb to all the death and destruction or burying the messaging that made his show so resonant? The answer: by driving home the cruelties of this system with the same cinematic flair that made Squid Game a hit in the first place – albeit with a few clumsily executed, cringe-inducing choices.
The premiere returns us to the arena’s bloodied corridor immediately after the previous season’s shootout between the rebelling players, led by battered survivor Gi-hun (Lee Jung-jae), and the pink jumpsuited guards. After seeing the game’s Front Man (Lee Byung-hun) order the death of his closest ally, Jung-bae (Lee Seo-hwan), Gi-hun becomes a visibly grief-stricken shell of his former, more determined self. Lee offers a convincingly chilling depiction of a once fiery crusader grappling with this failed mission to end the games for good. As Gi-hun becomes overtaken with guilt and quiet rage, he nails the complexities of a person battling the forces aligned against him and, at times, losing. The momentary cracks in Gi-hun’s moral resolve are distressing but also surprisingly grounding. He’s way more relatable than a hero who unwaveringly commits to taking the high road.
This is especially true when he learns of Dae-ho’s (Kang Ha-neul) cowardly decision to stay out of the fight against the guards after agreeing to secure more ammo, which arguably led to many unnecessary deaths (including Jung-bae’s). Tensions between Gi-hun and Dae-ho devolve into a heightened game of cat and mouse, pushing a cornered Dae-ho to shed the layers of personality that once positioned him as an affable background character. He’s far more nuanced while on defense against Gi-hun, allowing Kang to step up and match Lee’s energy with each ill-fated interaction.
We see a real shift play out in what’s arguably Squid Game’s most harrowing game, which pits players against each other more overtly than ever before. With the players split into two opposing teams, one group is tasked with killing the other in a high stakes rendition of hide-and-seek. In comparison to more metaphorical games that came before it, this one gets a little too literal, putting actual daggers in the players’ hands. Part of the intrigue in past games was due to players making split-second decisions to save their hides. Here, the choice is essentially stripped from them, but it still contains some of Squid Game’s harshest heartbreaks and lessons. Chief among those lessons: good intentions never guarantee a hero’s ending – or that they’ll remain good for long. It’s a reality that makes this particular chapter comparable to the gut punch of season one’s “Ggangbu.” It’s also where Park Sung-hoon, returning as the combat-trained trans player and fan favorite Hyun-Ju, gets to flex some action-star skills and deliver solid physical and emotional blows.
The game’s biggest reveal, however, is that of the wealthy VIPs masquerading as Squid Game guards. Previously seen only briefly in season 1, the VIPs’ increased involvement in the games makes them a prominent part of season 3. Their participation leads to one of the season’s biggest weaknesses – not because their gleefulness cranks up the brutality in any meaningful way, but because their cringe-inducing dialogue and almost cartoonishly villainous line delivery clashes with their co-stars’ sincerity.
Beyond that, their insights – which mostly amount to recaps of what we just watched unfold – are almost entirely unnecessary. And on a show that maintained a decent pace up to this point, the VIPs’ addition feels a lot like filler. Its only saving grace is that it becomes the source of a pivotal development in the game when Jun-hee (Jo Yuri) unexpectedly gives birth and the rich spectators vote to make the baby – not so much a bundle of joy but a bit of weird computer animation, from what I can tell – a new player. Apart from giving certain players a renewed reason to survive (and raising questions about how, exactly, a newborn can compete in the Squid Game), the baby is a brilliant, devastating show of the trauma handed down from parent to child. As her fate is left up to a soulless system and desperate opponents, she brings a 21st-century disregard for children into alarming focus.
This predictably culminates in an intense faceoff between Gi-hun and the baby’s father, the morally ambiguous crypto bro Myung-gi (Yim Si-wan). But that lack of surprise doesn’t negate the final battle’s absolutely breathtaking execution, concluding with cinematography that’s both haunting and a testament to the level of craft that went into Squid Game. Hwang’s decision to not take the easy way out is admirable. A much cleaner, happier ending wouldn’t have been as effective. Instead, we’re left with a final reminder that there are very few winners in either the Squid Game or its many everyday analogues. We’re also left with a parting scene and A-list cameo (because we can’t forget just how big of a global phenomenon we’re leaving behind) that could be interpreted as leaving the door open for future games. It’s a daunting thought: Squid Game is a cautionary tale that benefits from brevity rather than a multiverse of pointless spinoffs and sequels. On its own, the ending further illustrates a dangerous game with global impact, one that we can try to outlive, but never fully escape.