When I sat down to watch the 2007 remake of Michael Haneke’s “Funny Games,” I didn’t know what I was getting into. It had been a typical boys’ night at a friend’s house, and we needed something to watch in between bouts of Taco Bell and 100 Gecs. My friend’s premise of the movie was enticing enough to warrant a try.
“It’s a thriller,” he said, “except it’ll play with what your ideas of a thriller are.”

And it did, because “Funny Games” isn’t a normal thriller that sits its audience down in front of an hour and a half of exciting jump scares, romantic tension, sex, and gory kills. It’s a movie that punishes you for daring to watch it. I felt sick through all 111 minutes of the film, credits included. Not because of anything I saw on the screen, but for the opposite reason: I felt sick because what I wanted to see on the screen was more grotesque than anything that “Funny Games” permits itself to show you.

Through purposeful censorship of the moments that make it a thriller movie in the first place, “Funny Games” criticizes its audience for their interest in the film. When the movie was originally set to air in theaters, it was marketed as a flick to stand amongst movies like “Halloween” and “Nightmare on Elm Street” and as such attracted an audience who wanted to see a series of horrifying acts for entertainment. Then it forced them to think about what kind of monster would want to go see that.

So what kind of monster would want to go see that?

The kind of monster who enjoys “Squid Game.”

Me. And you, too.

I watched Hwang Dong-hyuk’s “Squid Game” at the behest of my family members, who assured me it was Netflix’s next big trending show to rival the likes of “Stranger Things” or “Tiger King.” Through all nine episodes, I felt the same sickness that “Funny Games” forced onto me slowly creep its way back into my brain.

“Squid Game” follows a pretty similar premise to movies like “ The Hunger Games” or “Battle Royale,” pitting a number of “players” against each other for a grand prize and the grace of not ending up in a pile of their own blood. It’s completely unoriginal in that sense, but I couldn’t stop watching it for the same reason I couldn’t stop watching “Funny Games:” I wanted more. When “Squid Game” starts killing off players, the tension ramps up. It’s fun to see who is going to die next, fun to see if it will be a character you care about. You want more. 

When “Funny Games” shoots an innocent dog off screen, you feel gross. You wanted more.

Episode two of “Squid Game” takes place outside of the killing. Characters are given time to flesh out their backstories as the show tries to give you a reason to root for them. My family members all told me how boring the episode was and couldn’t the characters just get back to killing?

 I thought that was a pretty horrifying thing to say, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I shared that sentiment.

The last two deaths in “Squid Game” happen on screen. Both of them have the potential to be carried out by a person in the scene who you know wants the kill, and both of them are kills you want to see that person carry out. But neither death is a murder. When I watched them, I was sitting in my dorm room with the air conditioning on, huddled half under a blanket, wearing a pink hoodie and black jeans and staring into the screen of my phone, observing the actors with macabre interest. My hands were clean. 

If you’ve hopped aboard the Netflix hype train, I’m guessing you’ll be somewhere similar when you watch those final deaths, and the same thought that I had will cross your mind.

 “What a waste.”