K-Pop Demon Hunters is Really Good (And Hollywood Should be Ashamed of Itself)

 K-Pop Demon Hunters is Really Good (And Hollywood Should be Ashamed of Itself)

First, let's get the transparency out of the way...

I’m a 37-year-old, white, American male K-pop stan. And I don’t mean that in the polite, casual way people usually say it—like I throw a playlist on once in a while and nod along. I mean stan in the truest sense of the word. For my favorite groups, I know every member’s name, their roles, their colors, their quirks. I can pick out individual voices mid-chorus, clock an era from a single promo photo, and I have spent an amount of money on merch that some people would call embarrassing—except I’m not embarrassed. I’m genuinely proud of it.

This is my office:

Literally half of my backdrop is K-pop. That standee back there? That’s Momo—my favorite member of my favorite group, TWICE. When my wife asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I said “Momo,” and she got me Momo. No follow-up questions. No judgment. Just pure, unquestioning love.

That’s what real romance looks like.

So... with all of that said, I strangely held off on watching KPop Demon Hunters for a while. I don’t know why—maybe I wanted to save it, maybe I didn’t want expectations to ruin it. But tonight felt right. 

As I am writing this it is currently 12:34 AM on January the 1st 2026.

I put it on just a couple hours ago letting it ring in the new year. I had heard good things from all of the reviewers I follow, and they usually hate everything (and have no interest in K-Pop), so I was happy to hear it. I expected something fun. Music by one of my favorite groups. A feel-good story. Strong animation. Comfort food for a fan like me. 

I got all of that.

And somehow… I got so much more. So much more, in fact, that Hollywood should be genuinely ashamed of itself—because it hasn’t given me anything like this. Well, that’s not entirely true. It has given me things. Mostly shit. Relentless, soulless, focus-tested, checkboxed-to-death shit.

And now that it’s officially 2026, I feel perfectly comfortable saying this out loud: not a single Western studio film released this year—maybe with the exception of Bring Her Back and The Naked Gun—had any real merit. No weight. No heart. No soul. Nothing that justified the ticket price, let alone the time. Just content. Disposable, forgettable content.

KPop Demon Hunters didn’t just clear that bar—it obliterated it. It embarrassed every one of those studios. Especially Disney, DreamWorks, Pixar, and the rest of the giants who should be delivering high-quality, heartfelt, character-driven animated films as a matter of course. This is their lane. Or at least, it used to be.

They owe audiences an apology. And KPop Demon Hunters should be the catalyst that forces them to remember how storytelling is actually done.

Because it just knocked every AAA studio down to AA, just by existing.

Likeable characters are still a thing?

When was the last time you watched a Western studio film that didn’t include at least one painfully insufferable, masculinely toxic girlboss archetype—or a male character so neutered he exists solely to be mocked, belittled, and turned into the punchline of every joke? When was the last time you saw genuine, platonic camaraderie between characters of the same gender that wasn’t rooted entirely in their shared contempt for the opposite sex?

When was the last time you saw female characters who were allowed to find male characters attractive, talented, valuable—without irony, without apology, without some narrative need to immediately undercut it? When was the last time a romantic entanglement felt sincere—where neither character was hateful, spiteful, competitive, or locked in some exhausting power struggle masquerading as “chemistry”?

When was the last time you saw a male character openly admit his wrongs—not with sarcasm or self-pity—but with humility, and then selflessly sacrifice himself for another hero? And when was the last time female characters were allowed to be everything at once—burping and fixing their makeup, glamorous and lazy, heroic and funny, cute and sexy, intelligent and talented—

Flawed... Deeply, unapologetically, humanly flawed.

Holy shit, we don’t get these things anymore. Not like this. Not without cynicism, not without an agenda smothering the character work. And yet here they all are—these wonderful, messy, sincere, life-giving qualities—existing effortlessly in a film that remembers what stories are supposed to feel like.

And more importantly what characters are supposed to feel like.

Mira, Rumi, and Zoey are all so great—so great—that each of them is instantly distinct, immediately recognizable, and effortlessly likable. Within minutes, you understand who they are: their roles within the group, their strengths and weaknesses, their likes and dislikes, their quirks. More importantly, you understand what drives them—what pushes them forward, all the way to the point of literally uncovering their demons.

These are characters brought to life with nuance and secrets, with compassion, friendship, and a genuine understanding of humanity and emotion—an understanding Western studios, especially in the post-COVID era, seem either incapable of or unwilling to engage with. They are flawed, not in a way that makes them grating or unlikable, but in a way that makes them unmistakably human. Almost distractingly so, in an era dominated by films filled with cardboard cutout characters—hollow, lifeless, and interchangeable.

And as a writer myself, I have to ask: why can’t Western studios do this anymore? They used to. And don’t give me the “times have changed” bullshit. KPop Demon Hunters proves that while time and art evolve, our humanity doesn’t. The relationships between these characters pulled me straight back to Toy Story—to that first film where, even as a kid, the bond between Woody and Buzz felt undeniable. It transcended the medium. It made you forget you were watching an animated film at all.

These aren’t qualities we lost as humans, or as artists, or even as audiences. They’re things we forgot. Or worse—things we abandoned. And KPop Demon Hunters stands as proof that not all of us have lost our understanding of what it means to be human.

When it comes to its characters, KPop Demon Hunters’ greatest flaw is that we don’t get to spend more time with them. These aren’t the kind of characters you merely want to watch save the world—they’re the kind of characters you want to know. The kind you’d want to sit with, laugh with, struggle alongside. The kind you’d want as best friends.

And that says everything.

Add on a good dose of story with heart...

We live in an age obsessed with identity. Everything is filtered through it—sexuality, body type, politics, labels stacked on top of labels. So many stories now begin with “I am X” and end with “X isn’t what defines me, I’m actually Y, and now I’m proud of it.” It’s become a narrative loop so predictable you can set your watch by it. Hell, just last week Stranger Things Season 5 became an internet meme over yet another coming-out moment—by the third openly gay character across five seasons—played not as character development, but as a required beat.

Identity is everywhere. It’s treated as the core of storytelling itself. And the irony is brutal: by making identity everything, stories end up losing their own identity entirely. Characters stop being people and start being declarations. Arcs stop being journeys and become announcements. What’s meant to be personal becomes mechanical, and what’s meant to be human becomes performative.

It’s not that identity doesn’t matter—it obviously does. It’s that when identity replaces character, when labels replace motivation, longing, fear, love, contradiction, and growth, the story collapses under its own self-importance. In trying so hard to define itself, modern storytelling forgets how to be itself.

And that irony—that quiet, tragic irony—is impossible to ignore.

So why, then, does the story of KPop Demon Hunters—and Rumi’s path toward acceptance—feel so fundamentally different?

Because it doesn’t start with a declaration. Rumi doesn’t walk on screen announcing who or what she is, nor does the story bend itself into knots to underline it. Her struggle isn’t framed as an identity thesis—it’s framed as a human one. Fear. Shame. Longing. The terror of being seen. The even greater terror of being loved once you are.

Her acceptance isn’t performative. It isn’t applauded by a speech or punctuated by a slogan. It’s quiet. Earned. Painful. It comes from failure, from secrets cracking under pressure, from realizing that being honest might cost her everything—and choosing it anyway. Her arc isn’t about telling the world who she is. It’s about deciding whether she can live with herself if she doesn’t.

That’s the difference.

KPop Demon Hunters understands that acceptance only matters when something real is at stake. When it’s tangled up in relationships, in trust, in friendship, in the fear of losing the people who make you whole. Rumi isn’t reduced to an identity—she’s allowed to be contradictory, brave and scared, strong and fragile, selfless and selfish in the same breath.

What makes it hit even harder is that Rumi isn’t granted the safety or control of revealing her truth on her own terms. She doesn’t get a quiet confession or a perfectly framed moment of vulnerability. Her truth is exposed. Torn into the open. Revealed to the world and to the people she loves most without her consent. And when that revelation comes, it isn’t met with instant understanding or moral superiority—it’s met with fear. Real fear. Her own best friends draw their weapons on her, because what they see threatens everything they thought they knew.

And that reaction matters. It isn’t sanitized. It isn’t gentle. It doesn’t pretend that betrayal, shock, and terror aren’t part of discovering a truth like this. The story allows that ugliness to exist without endorsing it—because that’s honest. That’s human.

But what follows is where KPop Demon Hunters does something rare.

It doesn’t resolve this fracture with speeches or ideology. It resolves it through history. Through shared struggle. Through the language these characters speak best—not words, but song. Their bond, forged long before this moment, becomes stronger than fear. Stronger than instinct. Stronger than the urge to destroy what they don’t understand.

In the end, they don’t say, “I love you because you’re perfect,” or even “I love you because you’re brave enough to be yourself.” What they say—what the story shows—is far more powerful:

I love you despite your demons.

Not in ignorance of them. Not in denial of them. But with full knowledge. With eyes open. With trust reclaimed through choice.

That’s acceptance with weight. Acceptance that costs something. Acceptance that feels earned because it risks everything. And that’s why it lingers—because it isn’t about affirming an identity. It’s about choosing love when fear would be easier.

It’s so much more than an obnoxious “I’m non-binary” speech followed by applause and cuddles. It’s so much more than an “I don’t like girls” declaration from a character everyone already knew didn’t like girls. It’s not a moment engineered to be clapped at—it’s a truth spoken without safety nets.

What the story actually says is far simpler, and far braver: I’m not perfect. Now let’s save the world together.

That sentiment isn’t selective. It isn’t gated. It isn’t curated for a single audience or identity. It stands for all of us—fat, gay, Republican, Democrat, Christian, Muslim, honky-tonk, hip-hop. Every single one of us carries something ugly, something broken, something we’re afraid will make the people we love turn away.

KPop Demon Hunters understands that the point isn’t erasing those demons or pretending they’re virtues. The point is finding the people who see them clearly—and stay anyway. Not because they’re told to. Not because it’s the “right” thing to do. But because love, real love, is a choice made in full awareness of imperfection.

That’s not messaging. That’s humanity. And it’s something we’ve been starving for far longer than most studios seem willing to admit.

Kudos upon kudos to KPop Demon Hunters for understanding that.

Every song is a banger... I'm not fucking with you...

Look, as I said earlier, I am a K-pop stan. I love the vibe. I love the beats. I love the visuals—the pretty girls, the immaculate production, the colors, the lights, the impossible polish of it all. That alone already puts me in the target audience.

But if you’ve been on the internet for more than five minutes since the release of KPop Demon Hunters, you already know this: the soundtrack isn’t just good—it’s banger after banger after banger.

This isn’t a case of one standout track doing all the heavy lifting while the rest fade into background noise. This is a full, unapologetic assault of original songs, every single one of them playlist-worthy, every one of them feeling like it belongs on an actual comeback EP rather than a throwaway “movie soundtrack.” KPop Demon Hunters understands exactly what a K-pop–centered film is supposed to do—and then commits to it without hesitation.

“Takedown,” performed by my ride-or-die girls TWICE, hits with pure confidence—slick, powerful, and razor-sharp, the kind of track that makes you sit up a little straighter the moment it kicks in. “Soda Pop” is infectious in that dangerously addictive way, bright and playful without ever feeling disposable. “Golden” feels triumphant, emotional, earned—a song that understands its place in the story while still standing tall on its own merits.

And the wild thing is—there isn’t a miss here. No filler. No “this one’s fine, I guess.” Every track feels intentional, fully produced, and emotionally synced to the moment it’s attached to. The music doesn’t interrupt the story—it is the story. It elevates scenes, deepens character beats, and reinforces themes without ever feeling like marketing bait.

This is what happens when a movie doesn’t treat K-pop like an aesthetic, but like an art form. When it respects the genre enough to let the music actually lead. And because of that, the soundtrack doesn’t just support the film—it becomes one of its strongest arguments for why the whole thing works so damn well.

And I do want to take a moment—genuinely—to call attention to my girl Audrey Nuna. I’ve been a fan of hers for years, and she is grossly, insanely, criminally underrated as both a rapper and a singer. Seeing her finally get her flowers as the original singing voice of Mira feels long overdue in the best possible way.

Audrey isn’t just “good”—she’s top-tier. Effortlessly cool, razor-sharp, vocally versatile, with a presence that cuts through a track the second she opens her mouth. She has that rare quality where attitude, control, and emotion coexist without canceling each other out. Her voice doesn’t just sound good—it communicates. It carries confidence, bite, vulnerability, and swagger all at once, which makes her an absolutely perfect fit for Mira as a character.

This role feels earned.  Audrey Nuna deserves this position, and the praise she’s getting for it is fully warranted. If anything, it’s just scratching the surface of what she’s capable of. Hearing her performance land with audiences who may be discovering her for the first time is incredibly satisfying—because this is an artist who has been doing the work quietly, consistently, and at a high level for a long time.

We love Audrey Nuna in this house. And it’s a genuine treat to see her finally getting a piece of what she’s deserved all along—recognition, visibility, and a platform that matches her talent. Long may it continue.

If you've never heard her songs Comic Sans, Space, Time, Baby Blues, Damn Right, Cool Kids, then fix that. She deserves your attention.

Okay, so KPop Demon Hunters is good... And?

And it’s so good that we should start expecting work of this quality from the big studios that love to call themselves “triple-A.” If KPop Demon Hunters can pull this off—with this level of care, sincerity, and craft—then there is absolutely no excuse for the industry giants to keep coasting on mediocrity.

I’ve seen reactions from people who aren’t K-pop fans. People who usually hate everything. YouTube reviewers who live off cynicism. Old men. Irishmen. Women. Kids. Everyone seems to land in the same place: KPop Demon Hunters is special. And when even the Critical Drinker likes your K-pop-focused animated film—when that cantankerous connoisseur of cinematic catastrophe gives it a nod—you know something unusual is happening. That man despises almost everything.

We’ve been force-fed garbage for so long that we forgot what it feels like to sit down and watch something that actually resonates. Something that introduces you to characters who begin to matter. Characters who feel real. Who hit on personal levels. Who you can relate to, understand, laugh at and with—and, most importantly, want to be best friends with.

When I was a kid, every time I left a movie theater, I walked out as someone new. A different personality. A different character. Sometimes not even human at all. That was the magic of storytelling—of characters so vivid they reshaped your imagination. They rewired your brain. They became your new imaginary friends. They sent you sprinting to Target to grab whatever action figure or T-shirt you could find before they sold out.

I’m still very much that kid. But I haven’t felt that in years. Outside of Everything Everywhere All at Once—and even then, only partially—nothing in the last five years has made me want more. I bought the Blu-ray. I respected it. I didn’t feel compelled to live inside it.

KPop Demon Hunters changed that. It’s been that long.

Because this time, I do want more. I want the merch. I want the figures. I want more stories, more time with these characters, more of this world. It gave me that feeling again—that pull toward something that resonates deeply, that makes you want to belong to it, to carry it with you.

And maybe it hits harder because I’m a K-pop fan. Maybe because I already love a lot of the people involved—TWICE, Audrey (we see you). But what I know for certain is this: KPop Demon Hunters was the last movie I watched in 2025, and it’s the only movie from the entire year that I want to experience more of.

So as 2026 begins and we step into this new year, I want us all to remember the two things that KDH left me with. One: don't settle for mediocrity from the companies shoveling garbage into our mouths and calling it health food. And two; something much more simple and true, something that I really think KDH was trying to tell us: we all have our demons. We just have to find the people, our people—the real family—who remind us we don’t have to hide them.

We don’t have to pretend we’re perfect. We can let our scars show, wear them like armor, and move forward knowing that together?

We’re golden.