Stunt philanthropist Jimmy Donaldson — better known as MrBeast on YouTube — is the human embodiment of the phrase “go big or go home.” He’s the record holder for most subscribers, flaunts crazy giveaway prizes and most recently sought to award $5 million, or what he called the “largest cash prize in the history of entertainment,” in his new reality game series “Beast Games.”
It shouldn’t shock anyone that the show’s issues — culminating in a September 2024 class action lawsuit filed by five of his contestants — are just as massive.
Even on paper, the scope of “Beast Games” is difficult to grasp. There are 1,000 contestants, shooting locations that range from a $14 million set to a private island and countless challenges that seem too inhumane to be real. As soon as “Beast Games” opens, we’re privy to its mercilessness — contestants stand on trapdoor platforms and are tempted with cash bribes to leave before the games officially start, sabotaging others in the process. Despite its cruelties, the show hit 50 million viewers in under a month.
It’s obvious Donaldson and his cronies took inspiration from the hit Netflix drama “Squid Game” in their fashioning of “Beast Games,” and that’s not just because of the title. Contestants are referred to by their numbered jerseys, the crew walks around in all-black suits and masks and the challenges occur surrounding a prop $5 million pile of cash. The player pool is culled by encouraging sacrifice or selfishness — people are asked to give up $1 million to save teams of 50 to 60 players, or are locked in rooms for hours and forced to decide who out of them won’t be making it out. It’s a shock that the first legal case coming out of “Beast Games” wasn’t a cease-and-desist order.
Somehow, the dynamics between contestants manage to be as off-putting as “Beast Games’” psychologically taxing challenges and ostentatious bribes. As numbers thin, players default to a hierarchy within the show, usually directing the most sympathy toward those who resist monetary temptation or stumble into leadership roles. And like some twisted Stanford Prison Experiment, the chosen few get a little too excited about their influence. Player 991, or Jeremy, becomes a cult-like idol after turning down $1 million to save his team in “500 People Trapped In My City.” Quickly, Jeremy is revered for his firm religious beliefs and earns the majority of votes in “The Golden Ticket” to pick five people to move on in the game. After a group of women express concerns about whether or not Jeremy will pick a fair ratio of male to female players to give safety to, Jeremy assures players that prayer and guidance from the Lord will enable him to make the right decision. In some grand gesture, Jeremy gets on the floor and prays, and surprise, surprise: He only picks one female player.
Belief in divine intervention permeates the other challenges in the show, often as a scapegoat for players’ immorality and competitiveness. “The Elimination Train” puts a spin on the age-old ethics of the Trolley Problem, where players use their own judgment to decide whether to save their friends or win a car, like a Lamborghini. Even when a player’s fate is literally in someone else’s hands, their rationale for losing is not because they were targeted — it’s because the universe didn’t want them there.
You’d think that the contestant’s staunch belief in a higher power than Donaldson and his camera crew of twenty-somethings running “Beast Games” would make the show an easier watch, but the experience resembles what I imagine eternal damnation is like. Each episode brings a juxtaposition between crocodile tears from people who just want to blow through the grand prize and contestants who were scouted for the show because they’re homeless or need the cash to find a cure for their kids’ rare disease. “Beast Games” is pure emotional whiplash, exploiting genuine tragedy or hardship in the hopes of good entertainment.
But if you nix the flashy games, like pulling a monster truck or playing hide-and-seek with Navy SEALs, how much good entertainment can “Beast Games” even provide? Unless you’re a sadist or a 12-year-old enamored with MrBeast’s jumpy editing and buzzy phrases like “everyone has a price,” you’ll find that Donaldson’s formula for YouTube success is poorly translated to a long-form television series. It’s too overstimulating to make you care for any of the contestants, especially when there’s hundreds of them. Only a few players get actual screen time, and even then, they’re usually on their way out and virtue signaling to a brick wall.
Over the years, Donaldson has managed to brand MrBeast as some messed up Willy Wonka character: Someone who can bring anyone from destitution to affluence as long as they’re desperate enough for it. And while his contestants are alleging that they were “exposed to dangerous circumstances and conditions” ranging from workplace abuse to sexual harassment, millions of us are voluntarily watching their nearly 10-hour-long humiliation ritual because his name is behind it. “Beast Games” certainly isn’t Donaldson’s first controversial project, and it won’t be his last. Even from our couches, we’re perpetuating the exploitative cycle of MrBeast’s online dynasty by scanning in-episode QR codes for the chance to win millions alongside the coveted grand prize winner. Just like “Beast Games’” coveted host, we’d all rather be rich than be human.
Contact Dani Biondi at [email protected].
