Untamed Realms: The Harsh Reality of “Beast Games”

“Beast Games,” a reality-competition series currently available on Amazon Prime, commences with a dramatic camera angle, spinning in three hundred sixty degrees to showcase the host, a slim young individual gripping a microphone. The man appears quite ordinary: sporting a light beard, youthful complexion, and an outfit straight off the Zara display (tight trousers, shining white sneakers, blazer over hoodie), he resembles a junior medical-device salesperson ready for an evening at a Murray Hill sports bar with his college friends. Yet, the fact that he is positioned on a pyramid-shaped pile of cash indicates he is not your typical everyman; as he speaks, his voice crackles with the fervent energy reminiscent of a megachurch pastor. “I am standing on five million dollars of authentic funds,” he declares. “The largest jackpot in entertainment history! Competing for this five million dollars are these one-thousand players. Come on in!”

This man is Jimmy Donaldson, also known as the YouTube phenomenon MrBeast—the type of personality that you might not be acquainted with if you’re over twenty-five, yet the Gen Zs and Gen Alphas in your circle surely recognize. (Even if they’re not supporters: “Please don’t write about MrBeast,” my thirteen-year-old daughter urged, before knowledgeable elaborating on significant moments in his career.) Donaldson, aged twenty-six, holds the title of the most popular creator on YouTube, boasting three hundred forty-four million subscribers and millions of views for nearly all videos he publishes. (He recently disclosed to Time magazine that he generates between six hundred and seven hundred million dollars in annual revenue.) His ascent to platform preeminence began in 2012, when he was only thirteen years old, and over the years he has gained recognition for his lavish, high-production-value videos, where formidable challenges are met and conquered. Sometimes he acts as the subject for various P.O.W.-style scenarios (“I Spent 7 Days Buried Alive”; “I Paid a Real Assassin To Try To Kill Me”; “I Spent 7 Days In Solitary Confinement”); at other times, he lends a hand to a disadvantaged community (“I Helped 2,000 People Walk Again”; “I Saved 100 Dogs From Dying”); and on various occasions, he provides substantial rewards to competitors he pits against one another in a series of gladiatorial events (“Every Country On Earth Fights For $250,000”; “100 Boys Vs 100 Girls For $500,000”).

“Beast Games” aligns with the latter category, and although the series marks Donaldson’s initial venture into television, it maintains many elements that have contributed to his renown on YouTube. Throughout ten episodes (of which only six have been broadcast at the time of this writing), Donaldson and his all-male “crew”—consisting of five youthful and enthusiastic sidekicks named Nolan and Chandler—oversee a variety of challenges, progressively eliminating participants from the initial thousand with which the game begins. The contests include a trivia segment (“Who founded Amazon?” “Jeff Bezos is the correct reply”), a block-stacking competition (who will be amongst the first hundred individuals to be removed due to their stack tumbling?), and oversized beer pong (which team will succeed in getting more balls into a gigantic Solo cup?). The events unfold first in a dim and expansive hall furnished with separate platforms for contestants, followed by a bleak model-like “city” (featuring a “T-Mobile V.I.P. House” where winners of a challenge can relax), and later on the brush and sand of a private island in Panama that members of the team are striving to secure.

The participants, clad in blue tracksuits adorned with individual serial numbers, are monitored by hooded sentinels—an aesthetic reminiscent of Abu Ghraib meets Adidas, borrowed from the dystopian Korean show “Squid Game,” where a group of financially struggling contestants engages in a series of lethal childhood games. Yet, while the Netflix sensation is a clear source of inspiration, “Beast Games” is also a tribute to Donaldson’s fascinations, which appear consistently ignited by an innate desire to transform fantasy into reality. “What you are experiencing is genuine,” he says in voice-over, as the participants enter the arena where the games commence. “This is larger than anything you could possibly conceive.” The essence of this production is its over-the-top nature: the victor will claim five million dollars, indeed, but there are also other prizes on offer: that private island in Panama! A Lamborghini! Not to mention additional “large, colossal piles of cash” beyond the primary purse. Cannons are fired from a “real pirate ship,” and “real Navy SEALs” are deployed to pursue competitors in a survival test. Throughout the series, the five-million-dollar cash pyramid accompanies the players to most of the stages where the games unfold, silently yet pointedly positioned at the heart of the action. Additionally, when some contestants are ousted, they plummet suddenly through trap doors into holes in the ground. All this indicates that this is not a program that values subtext. The spectacle here is fundamentally literal: nothing needs to be imagined ever again.

The excess displayed here is juxtaposed with deprivation. “Completely liberating my family from the poverty cycle,” one contestant shares when asked about her motive for participating in the show; another’s father is battling cancer; a third individual experienced homelessness during their upbringing. The stakes involved are expressed most brazenly by an eager competitor: “I would die for this. I would die for five million dollars.” This desperation fuels the intensity of the drama. Many of the games Donaldson arranges are designed to evaluate the competitors’ personal needs—or perhaps, their greed—against their dedication to the collective. Will a contestant forfeit their own chances to ensure that the team they are part of does not face mass elimination? Conversely, will a competitor resist monetary offers, which, if taken, will enrich them but lead to their team being disqualified?

Such situations are structured as gripping “Sophie’s Choice”-like dilemmas. However, as I continued to observe, I had to concede to myself that my interest wasn’t awakened, nor was my sympathy—largely because I found it challenging to engage with the circumstances of contestants who, for the majority of the show’s duration, number in the hundreds and are predominantly referenced by their serial numbers rather than their actual names. There are several hints at the supposed “friendships”…

contestants have made throughout the games, and yet, it appears that even Donaldson himself recognizes that the show’s participants aren’t merely acquaintances to us but also to one another. They “just declined one million dollars, not for their friends but for individuals they’ve only known for a few days,” he marvels, after four contestants reject, for reasons unknown, a bribe that would have resulted in their teammates’ dismissal. Regardless: what drives the show isn’t character, or motivation, or storyline, but figures. As I reviewed the notes I accumulated during my watching of the series, it struck me that they resembled less the critical annotations I typically jot down and more akin to a mathematics class scratch pad. “18 individuals, $13,000 each,” one note stated; “62 individuals removed, 431 left,” noted another; “contestant 413 acquires golden ticket,” mentioned a third.

I’m a fan of reality television, but I also comprehend much of the criticism it garners. Reality stars, whether in competitive programs like “Survivor” and “The Amazing Race” or soap-opera-esque series like the “Real Housewives” franchise, consent to have their lives showcased for strangers’ amusement—a trade-off that, even if agreed upon, undoubtedly isn’t always healthy or fair. Nevertheless, at the very least, they have the opportunity to be unique characters. The allure of much reality television—despite claims of poor editing and manipulative narratives—is that, as viewers, we can concentrate on individuals’ distinct experiences and traits. (Each day, I express gratitude to those generous enough to agree to this trade-off for the enjoyment and enlightenment of the American public.) Yet, in “Beast Games,” there are no stars—no subjectivities to observe, no individuals to familiarize ourselves with, no intricate relationship dynamics to engage with—just a multitude of nameless figures cheering, shouting, and weeping their way through a series of absurd challenges. This form of abstraction is, in a manner, what the show embodies, and it is chilling. “They literally resemble ants,” Donaldson remarks to one of his associates as the two stand atop a tower, observing from a height as below them, hundreds of contestants flood into Beast City. Later, he provides another insight: “It’s akin to a horde of zombies coming toward me.” ♦