The first episode of Our Beloved Summer doesn’t really reel you in — it seems like a trivial story about two high school kids who love/hate each other. The girl, Yeonsu, is poor but smart and her personality has shades of Katherine from Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew and Estella from Dickens’ Great Expectations. There’s even an episode which references the movie 10 Things I Hate About You(which is a remake of Taming of the Shrew). The boy, Choi Ung, is lazy, perpetually sleepy, and a poor student. They are chosen because of their opposite school ranking to be the subject of a documentary (which is based on an actual documentary that was popular in Korea).

Like the movie 500 Days of Summer, there is a brutal break up and the story picks up 5 years later when they are in their 30’s and their social status in life has somewhat reversed. The way the story intercuts the past (high school), the breakup, the documentary footage, and the present day is in the style of This is Us and offers numerous opportunities for humor and heartbreak.

One of my favorite scenes was their first meet-cute (essential in every romance). It’s the end of the first documentary during their high school days and you can tell they’ve gotten close over the course of it and are reluctant to part ways. The way the “I like you” moment bubbles to the surface has all the awkwardness, reluctance, and thrill that characterizes a budding high school romance and the lead actors (Kim Dami and Choi Woo Shik) do a wonderful job of capturing the innocence and doe-eyed wonder of young love.

The character of Choi Ung is a young man who wants a relationship with his first love but can’t get over the rejection and instead is childish and resentful toward her. Yeonsu has achieved some of the outward success that she’s always strived for but is still slightly envious of the fame and contentment that Choi Ung seems to have attained, casting her life in a hollow shadow.

The way they deal with the conflict and simmering tension in Episode 8 with the fateful kiss (and brilliant and delightful move of showing all the kisses they’ve held out on prior to this moment) sets all the ships sailing. Or so you think. The writer and director’s choice to show the reality of that aftermath — Choi Ung drawing back into his shell out of fear and Yeonsu becoming the pursuer is a sure-footed step in the development of their romance.

Finally, the emotional breakthrough happens and all the simmering feelings come out. But, surprisingly, the story isn’t quite finished yet. Most K-dramas would end here. We are offered the treat of seeing them being a newly in love couple, holding hands and skipping to happily ever after. Then, the writer tries to pick up a storyline of Ji-Ung and his mother that is just super depressing and not needed at all. I also thought the likening of Choi Ung to the dog Jjjong jjong was unnecessary. Choi Ung is already adorable — we don’t need an actual dog to portray his spirit animal and make us fall in love with him more.

Another quibble I had in the second half was Yeonsu’s personality. She kind of loses her edge and instead tries some self-improvement with her pride and nagging. Also, the fact that she refused to tell him why she broke up with him in the first place was a bit irritating. That seemed to validate her prideful reasons for the breakup — that she was ashamed because she was poor and wanted to shield him from her hard life. I would’ve liked to see him get mad a little and push her to be honest there.

The director also could have played up her quirky side. We see a little of Kim Dami’s comedic gifts when she writhes in pain on her bed after stubbing her leg but there could have been more. They could have had a bit of the Holly/Michael dynamic from The Office, where only they understand each other’s weirdness. I’m personally not a fan of the aegyo girl act so less of that in K-dramas would not be missed by the international audience.

Also, her decision to stay instead of following Choi Ung to France was a bit muddled. She turns down a nice job offer in France, which would allow them to stay together, so that she can be with her friends and co-workers? That just doesn’t seem realistic. Her grandmother even gave her the go-ahead to follow her heart and it seemed like cutting that umbilical cord to her grandmother would have been a good thing for her, too. I wanted Choi Ung to be a little angry here as well that she chose to stay.

Our Beloved Summer is the strongest in the first 8–9 episodes. The dialogue is some of the best I’ve heard in any K-drama ever. The chemistry of the two leads is also full of charm and movingly portrayed. If they do a season 2 (we all want that, right?), I hope the writer will not get distracted by unnecessary side plots and just focus on the realities of a long-term relationship.

Squid Game — stylish, shocking, edge-of-your-seat exciting — the show somehow manages to comment on major themes in life while brutally pushing the edge of what constitutes fun and games. Put a bunch of recent college graduates in that immense “dorm” room with green tracksuits and show clips of how much they or their parents owe to lenders and you might be surprised who stays to play. What the show gets right is the crushing, soul-depleting, and dehumanizing desperation of people who are in debt. The college financial aid office, much like the game makers, could always argue — well, you had a choice and you decided to bet your life on this path. That still doesn’t rest easy on our collective conscience.

(NOTE: There are spoilers ahead so please don’t read until you’ve watched all 9 episodes)

That “choice” is a brilliant wrench in this story — does it absolve Oh Il-nam from guilt for all the deaths? Is that how the workers rationalize their participation in this horrible form of entertainment?

Once you tap the squid’s head, you win and yell out, “Victory.” At that moment, I felt as if I owned the entire world, exhilarated. Did you assume it was Gi-hun saying this in the opening voiceover while the boys were playing in the schoolyard? To the contrary, what this narrator says matches up with what Oh Il-nam says in the end, “When I was young, I had so much fun, no matter what I did with my friends that I lost track of time. I wanted to feel the same feeling one more time before I die…” [Side note: for the director to give away the ending like this right off the bat is pretty badass!]

A lot of what he says resonates with viewers today — in how many of us are now living fractured lives, monitoring others and invading their privacy through social media (in the same way the guards are viewing the contestants on TV screens), consuming large quantities of “entertainment” that is increasingly gory and sexualized. This separation from community is something precious that was lost with the invention of the smartphone and all we have left are distant memories. Fellow Gen Xers: do you still have memories of playing kickball, SPUD, and other childhood games? Sadly, will our children have that joy to look back on when they are old?

Only when you are young does time stretch out and the threat of mortality barely register in one’s mind. Is this not the ever-elusive state we all aspire to? Because in that moment when you are lost in a state of deep play it feels like you are, in fact, your true self. I find it hard to fault the old man for recognizing this about himself and seeking out that connection with Gi-hun.

He thanks Gi-hun for being a gganbu for him — someone more concerned about an old man’s welfare than absolving his own debts. In a way, the game brought out far more human qualities in Gi-hun that he had in the beginning of the show. It’s a testament to Lee Jung-Jae’s acting that no matter how despicable his character’s actions were, we rooted for him. The show only works if we want that second chance for him, too.

So, in the same way Gatsby threw a party to meet Daisy, did Oh Il-nam create the game to connect with people like Gi-hun on a personal level? Finding that gganbu in life is actually more important than money? It’s also curious as to why he says it was he that allowed Gi-hun to live. Is that just referring to the marble game when he faked amnesia and gave him his last marble? Or, was Gi-hun somehow the predetermined winner? Does Oh Il-nam always side with the person he personally likes and roots for and helps to make sure he does so? This would support the theory that I’ve read about Oh Il-Nam being Gi-hun’s father. It’s certainly a plausible theory, though supposedly denied by the director. Why else is the old man so concerned as to why Gi-hun isn’t using the prize money at the end and tries to help him feel less guilty about winning?

The director claims Squid Game is a commentary on capitalism and the way greed distorts human relationships. The truth of this was never more clear than when there was a toilet paper shortage during the pandemic. Faced with some of our “luxuries” possibly being taken away, it was a bit disheartening to see how fast our basic human decencies unraveled. There is a thin line between order and disorder in our society and the upcoming supply chain issues might further test that tension. The fact that North Korea has jumped on the anti-capitalist bandwagon is laughable. Does communism offer a better solution? In order to promote their brand of totalitarianism they must demonize the other option — no matter how ridiculous it makes them look.

Do you know what someone with no money has in common with someone who has too much money? Living is no fun for them. If you have too much money, no matter what you buy, eat, or drink, everything gets boring in the end….they [clients] had no joy in life anymore. This is the well-known pleasure principle and perfectly summed up by Marie Antoinette: “Nothing tastes.” Feasting too much on the richness of life causes you to both search for the next high and discontent once you get it. On Il-nam’s deathbed we see a clock near him, interminably clicking its slow, tortuous chime. This may be too “on the nose” for some storytellers, but the point is made…for people without joy, the passing of time is like a death sentence in a living hell.

While there are many Christian references sprinkled in the show, it’s hard to say what they amount to or if they lend anything to the message. During the marble game, Ji-Yeong reveals that her father was a pastor and abused her and her mother. That’s why she’s always irritated by the character who is praying out loud. In the end, though, she embodies the verse, “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends,” when she gives up her spot to Sae-Byeok. I also hear that her dying words have really resonated with our youth, who perhaps feel the way she does, that “out there” no one cares about them and life is a lonely crapshoot. Also, the fact that Gi-hun’s number is 456, (the last) and yet he becomes the first (winner) has scriptural significance: So, the last will be first, and the first will be last. And Oh Il-Nam is a God-like figure himself in that he goes into the game (earth) and becomes a contestant (man) and he saves Gi-hun.

The character of the front man is an intriguing character and the writer has only given us a few breadcrumbs. Has he become so twisted from winning the game that he can’t go back to normal life? His landlady tells his brother that he is overdue on his rent. Did he lose all of his winnings? I would like to see him go into the game in the next season, like the old man did — a face-off between him and Gi-hun (as the frontman) would be an interesting battle.

While watching the horse race Gi-hun says, “How could you lose — you’re such a great horse.” In the game, Gi-hun explores this question further — what makes one survive and another lose in life? Luck? Humanity? In the end the Squid Game world seems to argue that there is no sense in this game we call life — there are winners and losers, humans and animals, love and loss…

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

— Macbeth