On Survivor 41, players are presented with the opportunity to take a "shot in the dark" on immunity at tribal council. The last-ditch effort is represented by a dice. One might imagine the players rolling said dice, praying for it to land on a side signaling their safety. Alas, the dice is instead placed in a contraption, which then reveals whether or not the player received their one-in-six chance at safety.
On Survivor 41, castaway Erika Casupanan is presented with the hourglass twist, through which she may reverse the course of the game. The twist is appropriately represented by an hourglass. Less appropriately, Erika does not act on her decision to activate the twist by turning the hourglass upside down (as anyone who has ever used an hourglass is wont to do) but instead by smashing it.
This is the kind of imprecision that marks (or is it mars?) the whole of Survivor 41 thus far. Showrunner and host Jeff Probst has adorned his show's latest season with plenty of bells and whistles, but with little thought given to how these ornaments may actually impact the experience for both players and viewers alike. That the trinkets representing these additions to the game barely operate like their real-life counterparts is simply par for the course in a season of television in which the goal seems to be rendering all of us as confused as a goat on AstroTurf. In Survivor 41, merges are no longer merges, wins are no longer wins. And with players losing votes, gaining votes, risking votes, and swapping votes, monitoring the events of Survivor 41 is a nearly futile task.
Survivor 41 has been billed as the toughest iteration across the show’s 20+ years on television. Indeed, players are given very little food or resources. But this season may be the toughest in Survivor history for an entirely different reason. Survivor, for all its constant tinkering, has always been a balanced competition. But for the first time in the show’s history, Survivor just isn’t fair.
Nothing represents the game’s imbalance better than Liana Wallace’s Knowledge is Power advantage. The advantage is far from the first misstep in Survivor’s history, but it does mark an alarming turning point for the show, in which Jeff and his fellow producers are willing to place their feet on the scales of power. Liana’s advantage allowed her to steal another player’s idol or advantage at tribal council. In order to use it, she simply had to ask another player whether or not they had such a power in the game, and they could not lie in return. Anyone who has seen even a single episode of Survivor may have just heard a bell go off in their head.
They can’t lie? They can’t lie?! It boggles the mind that a bunch of longtime Survivor producers could have gathered in a meeting room and signed off on a twist that strips players of their most basic right in the game. Survivor is a social game, and deceit has been at its core since its inception in 2000. Survivor 41 has attempted to limits its players agency in a variety of ways (several castaways couldn’t even vote for the first several episodes), but manipulating the actual social fabric feels like a step too far.
To be fair, Xander Hastings — the eventual target of Liana’s advantage — managed to outmaneuver its excessive reach to brilliant effect. He found a way to deceive Liana despite the advantage’s attempt to nullify any such opportunity. In effect, Xander not only outplayed Liana, but he outplayed Survivor as well.
There are other examples of Survivor producers unfairly impacting the game this season - Danny McCray and Deshawn Radden were none too pleased when the results of the merge immunity challenge were inexplicably reversed by Erika’s easy decision to smash the hourglass — and there are rumors swirling of many more ahead. Complaining about something like fairness can come across as childish. What is fair anyway? One could easily write off Danny and Deshawn’s frustrations; they signed up for a game after all. But games do carry with them an implicit agreement upon a set of rules, and when those in power manipulate and alter those rules as they see fit, the implications could stretch well beyond the game at hand.
Netflix’s hit TV series Squid Game exploited this idea rather overtly, telling the tale of a shadowy organization that gathers hundreds of desperate South Koreans to compete in a series of children’s games for money, leaning into that all-too-childish notion of fairness.
The stakes in Squid Game couldn’t be higher. Failure to complete a task results in death, after all. To the Front Man’s credit, however, he and his masked henchmen do establish a clear set of rules early on, and continually make efforts to reinforce such rules in the name of fairness. Of course, even this bit of equality is soon undermined, as Squid Game reveals itself to be less about the desperation enacted by life under late-stage capitalism, and more about the cruelty of those overlooking it all.
When players pair off for the fourth game, Mi-nyeo is left unchosen. Players and viewers alike might expect her to die as a result, and she is whisked away to confirm as such. But when the game’s surviving players return to their quarters only to see Mi-nyeo is alive, it comes as a surprise to us all. The Front Man keeps Mi-nyeo alive, a small twist in the game that portends much more sinister ones to come. As players’ expectations are subverted, the Squid Game reveals itself to be an unreliable format. To win the Squid Game, one must engage in a bit of gamesmanship, something our protagonist Gi-hun must grapple with over time. This pressure-cooker environment is played out for the pleasure of passive onlookers, wealthy American elites who place bets on and pick favorites from the game’s several participants. By extension, the games play out for our pleasure as well. We are watching the show, after all. No matter how much we might wince, Squid Game is there for us, and we are implicated in its events.
Isn’t Survivor much of the same? The show may feature real people, but as long as they are inside our television screens, they are characters. And no matter how much Jeff may try to humanize his show’s characters by talking with them before challenges or showing brief glimpses of their lives back home, his willingness to run them through his wide assortment of trinkets and toys forever suggests the contrary.
Since the show’s inception in 2000, the appeal of Survivor has been — at least to some extent — rooted in our fascination with what people may be willing to do for $1 million. It has led to many a debate about the ethics of lying, swearing on your loved ones, etc. Throw in the fact that these people are often cold, starving, homesick, and dirty, and you have yourself a winner!
Indeed, all game shows and reality competition shows stem from a sort of sick capitalist obsession. Like its peers, Survivor has largely outgrown this interest, but its current season is an uncomfortable reminder of the show’s ultimate goal: to make the best television possible. I think I’ve made it clear as to whether or not I believe the show has followed through on even that simple promise, but the sentiment remains. Probst and company have grown alongside their players over the years, but they remain in an elevated position, willing to put these players through the wringer with little regard for fairness and equality. I’ll stop short of equating Probst with Squid Game’s Front Man (I’d hate to hide those dimples under a mask), although I’d be more than happy to lump in the show’s creator and executive producer Mark Burnett with those slimy VIPs.
Fortunately for Survivor, even at its worst, it’s among the best shows on television. Unfortunately for those of us demanding more from the show we cherish so dearly, there may not be much impulse to change anytime soon.
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