Angry contestants who took part in Netflix’s real-life iteration of Squid Game have threatened to sue the streaming service over their ‘animal’ like treatment.
A number of players told The Sun that they were ‘tortured’ and made to compete in freezing temperatures of -3 degrees celsius.
“We were tortured for eight hours. We were just fodder. You wouldn’t treat animals like that,” one contestant said.
“I know the show was supposed to be tough but it felt inhumane.
“At one point I could see they were bringing on a black coffin with a pink ribbon just like in the original show.
“I feel like they prioritised getting a good shot over helping us.”
Another player said they saw multiple contestants collapse throughout filming, including one woman who he believes had a seizure.
Love Film & TV?
Get your daily dose of everything happening in music, film and TV in Australia and abroad.
“Her head hitting the floor echoed around the studio before she started having what looked to me like a seizure.
“Then another lady collapsed. They were dropping like flies.
According to the publication, multiple players said that they are considering suing Netflix over their treatment.
Dystopian drama Squid Game was released in September 2021, and smashed streaming records within it’s first week of release. The streaming giant piggybacked off the success of the show by creating a ‘real-life’ iteration of the show called Squid Game: The Challenge, which is essentially a reality TV style version of the games – without the murders.
While reality shows generally have hundreds of thousands of applicants – Squid Game: The Challenge has a massive drawcard for entrants in the form of the massive prize amount on offer. The winner of the show will take home the largest prize ever – a whopping $4.56million prize (approx $6.77 million AUD).
While the premiere date of Squid Game: The Challenge hasn’t yet been confirmed, it’s expected to air sometime this year.
In partnership with Grill Mates and Stubb's BBQ Sauce.
There’s something unmistakably raw about William Crighton. It’s there in his voice—deep, cracked, like bark peeling from a eucalypt—and in the stories he tells, steeped in red dirt, rolling hills, and river ghosts. But beyond the music, there’s another side to Crighton that’s just as grounded in the Australian bush: cooking.
To him, the fire pit and the fretboard aren’t all that different. “I approach music similar to how I approach cooking ,” he says, “which is, I don't know too much, and going back to that childhood curiosity and wonder.”
Bush Songs and Backyard Smoke
Crighton’s music is often shaped by time spent in nature—walking through scrubland, sitting by creeks, or staring into campfire flames. His songs are rooted in place, and so is his food. He’s not about complicated recipes or kitchen gadgets; his ideal cooking set-up is a cast iron grill over coals, a sharp knife, and the open sky.
“There’s something about the bush that strips things back to what matters,” he says. “It’s the same with cooking. When you’re out there, it’s just you, the fire, and whatever you’ve got on hand. That’s where the magic is.”
And while Crighton’s approach is humble, it’s far from bland. A believer in bold, honest flavour, he’s quick to call out two essentials in his campfire toolkit: Grill Mates seasoning and Stubb’s BBQ Sauce.
“I’m not a chef, but I know what tastes good,” he laughs. “Grill Mates have that smoky hit that just works with anything—lamb chops, kangaroo, even a grilled zucchini. And Stubb’s? That stuff’s got soul.”
Smoke and Soul
For Crighton, cooking is more than just survival—it’s ceremony. Whether he’s on tour or out bush with his family, there’s a rhythm to it. Gather wood. Light the fire. Let it burn down. Season the meat. Cook it slow. Sit, talk, eat, listen. It’s the same process as writing a song, he says. “You don’t rush it. You let it build. You taste as you go.”
That sense of time, patience, and presence defines both his music and his meals. There’s no room for distractions when you're working with fire and feeling your way through a song. It’s tactile. Sensory. Honest.
“A little bit of not knowing, that's where the best s*** comes,” he says. “Too much heat, too much spice, too many words—it’ll burn out or fall flat. But when you hit it just right? It’s unforgettable.”
Music, Meat, and Meaning
Ask Crighton about the perfect cook-up, and he won’t talk about sous-vide machines or reverse searing. He’ll talk about standing barefoot in the dust, his guitar nearby, kids running around, a bit of Stubb’s soaking into a thick ribeye as the sun drops low.
It’s not just about what’s on the plate—it’s who you’re sharing it with, what the day’s been like, what you’re listening to Will tells us. "Food and music are both about creating a moment. That’s the stuff people remember.”
As his songs continue to resonate around the world, from the stages of Nashville to the paddocks of New South Wales, William Crighton remains committed to that core philosophy: stay grounded, keep it simple, and always cook with heart.
Because whether he’s crafting a haunting verse or searing a steak, Crighton knows—the good stuff happens when you let the fire do its thing.
In partnership with Grill Mates and Stubb's BBQ Sauce.
There’s something unmistakably raw about William Crighton. It’s there in his voice—deep, cracked, like bark peeling from a eucalypt—and in the stories he tells, steeped in red dirt, rolling hills, and river ghosts. But beyond the music, there’s another side to Crighton that’s just as grounded in the Australian bush: cooking.
To him, the fire pit and the fretboard aren’t all that different. “I approach music similar to how I approach cooking ,” he says, “which is, I don't know too much, and going back to that childhood curiosity and wonder.”
Bush Songs and Backyard Smoke
Crighton’s music is often shaped by time spent in nature—walking through scrubland, sitting by creeks, or staring into campfire flames. His songs are rooted in place, and so is his food. He’s not about complicated recipes or kitchen gadgets; his ideal cooking set-up is a cast iron grill over coals, a sharp knife, and the open sky.
“There’s something about the bush that strips things back to what matters,” he says. “It’s the same with cooking. When you’re out there, it’s just you, the fire, and whatever you’ve got on hand. That’s where the magic is.”
And while Crighton’s approach is humble, it’s far from bland. A believer in bold, honest flavour, he’s quick to call out two essentials in his campfire toolkit: Grill Mates seasoning and Stubb’s BBQ Sauce.
“I’m not a chef, but I know what tastes good,” he laughs. “Grill Mates have that smoky hit that just works with anything—lamb chops, kangaroo, even a grilled zucchini. And Stubb’s? That stuff’s got soul.”
Smoke and Soul
For Crighton, cooking is more than just survival—it’s ceremony. Whether he’s on tour or out bush with his family, there’s a rhythm to it. Gather wood. Light the fire. Let it burn down. Season the meat. Cook it slow. Sit, talk, eat, listen. It’s the same process as writing a song, he says. “You don’t rush it. You let it build. You taste as you go.”
That sense of time, patience, and presence defines both his music and his meals. There’s no room for distractions when you're working with fire and feeling your way through a song. It’s tactile. Sensory. Honest.
“A little bit of not knowing, that's where the best s*** comes,” he says. “Too much heat, too much spice, too many words—it’ll burn out or fall flat. But when you hit it just right? It’s unforgettable.”
Music, Meat, and Meaning
Ask Crighton about the perfect cook-up, and he won’t talk about sous-vide machines or reverse searing. He’ll talk about standing barefoot in the dust, his guitar nearby, kids running around, a bit of Stubb’s soaking into a thick ribeye as the sun drops low.
It’s not just about what’s on the plate—it’s who you’re sharing it with, what the day’s been like, what you’re listening to Will tells us. "Food and music are both about creating a moment. That’s the stuff people remember.”
As his songs continue to resonate around the world, from the stages of Nashville to the paddocks of New South Wales, William Crighton remains committed to that core philosophy: stay grounded, keep it simple, and always cook with heart.
Because whether he’s crafting a haunting verse or searing a steak, Crighton knows—the good stuff happens when you let the fire do its thing.
