By Mark Lee Netflix’s K-Pop Demon Hunters is a global smash: 33 million views in two weeks, a Billboard-topping soundtrack, and fictional K-pop bands charting higher than BTS and Blackpink. At first glance, it looks like a win for Asian representation. But beneath the glitter and high notes is a story built on the same tired script—one that lifts up Asian women while pushing Asian men aside. The film centers on Huntr/x, an all-female, Asian K-pop group who moonlight as demon hunters. They’re stylish, confident, and heroic. Their enemies? Saja Boys—also Asian, also idols—who’ve been possessed by evil spirits. They hardly speak. They don’t resist. They’re simply the problem to be eliminated. The girls are the stars. The boys are the threat. Even the title does the work: K-Pop Demon Hunters. The “demons” are literally Asian male pop idols. The hunters are glamorous Asian girls. This isn’t a metaphor—it’s the plot. The message lands hard: Power comes from defeating those who look like brothers, classmates, and peers. That’s not progress. That’s narrative dehumanization disguised as empowerment. And it didn’t have to be this way. The villainous group could have been anyone—a rival girl group, a corporate overlord, or even non-human monsters. But the creators chose to make the villains Asian boys. In a film about pop stardom, the decision to turn Asian male idols into literal demons wasn’t a storytelling necessity—it was a deliberate framing. It reinforces the idea that Asian men are the ones to be feared, silenced, and taken down. And it isn’t new. This is the evil Fu Manchu racist stereotype in a K-pop jacket. The demonized Asian male has long served as a convenient cultural—exotic, threatening, voiceless, and disposable. A century ago, he was the Fu Manchu character, a sinister, mustachioed mastermind out to corrupt the West. Now he’s a boyband villain possessed by evil, there to be punched, or destroyed. Same idea, new packaging. Even as aesthetics change, the structural message remains: Asian masculinity is expendable. This dynamic mirrors what appeared decades ago in The Joy Luck Club, hailed as a breakthrough in Asian American storytelling. That film gave Asian women emotional depth and individuality, but cast the Asian men as cruel, passive, or useless. That imbalance has persisted across generations of media. K-Pop Demon Hunters just updates it with sharper visuals, feminist branding, and global reach—but the framework is familiar: elevate the women, erase the men. Demon Hunters was co-directed and co-authored by Maggie Kang, a Korean American filmmaker. But representation behind the camera doesn’t guarantee fairness on screen. Kang’s film still reflects a white-centered framework: Asian girls get to be modern, powerful, and relatable—while Asian boys are cast as voiceless threats, as demons. This isn’t a coincidence. It shows how deeply market-driven racial coding operates—even Asian creators may absorb and reproduce the same narratives that make certain identities “marketable” and others expendable. And it doesn’t just misrepresent—it distorts. In reality, K-pop male groups are not marginalized villains. They’re global icons. BTS, EXO, Stray Kids—these artists are admired across cultures for their emotional range, choreography, and charisma. Reducing them to corrupted, silent antagonists isn’t world-building—it’s bias. These boys don’t need to be torn down to make room for someone else. Making them villains was a choice. Anti-Asian racism has always had its peculiar dynamics. Asian women are often portrayed as desirable or exotic—a lens that opens doors, particularly in industries dominated by white gatekeepers. Visibility becomes opportunity. But often, that opportunity comes with a cost: align with white norms, reinforce white expectations, and accept a version of success that requires Asian men to be diminished. The result? Asian women become stars. Asian men become obstacles, servants, or ghosts. The one male character with romantic significance—Jinu, Rumi’s love interest—who is built up as the ideal man: strong, handsome, protective, and emotionally vulnerable, but who in the end gets cut down. He also has a noticeable foreign accent, while the female leads have no accents—signaling that he’s still “foreign,” in contrast to the females. Once again, it is the man that is the “othered” foreigner while the women are more relatable. His storyline dives into self sacrifice: he dies to save Rumi and humanity, merging his soul with hers so the girls can prevail. That ends his journey—not as a leader or survivor, but as a fallen support figure. Even the one who seemed destined to matter is eventually terminated. And it didn’t have to be this way either. Jinu could have lived. He and Rumi could have fought side by side, survived, and shared in the victory. But instead, the same pattern repeats: the Asian male boy band is evil, the one good and attractive Asian man is idealized and then eliminated, and the only other major male presence—the group’s manager, voiced by Ken Jeong—serves mostly as comic relief. Even though his title is “manager,” he functions more like a servant—loud, emotional, clownish, and never heroic. Another box checked. There is of course no issue with movies having strong female leads. Asian women deserve complex, heroic roles, just as Asian men and others do. The problem isn’t in elevating one group. It’s in doing so by diminishing another—especially when that “other” is predictably the same. Some may dismiss this as “just a movie.” But stories shape perception. People absorb symbols and archetypes more than facts. Cultural images influence how groups are seen—who is cast as safe, desirable, or powerful, and who is marked as weak, dangerous, or disposable. This extends far beyond the screen. It affects hiring, leadership, and social trust. People are drawn to symbols that “feel” like strength—and if popular media keeps portraying Asian men as monsters, jokes, or martyrs, those associations don’t stay in the theater. This isn’t just one film. It’s a pattern. A pattern where Asian women rise by aligning with white expectations—confident, empowered, and unpaired. A pattern where Asian men exist only to fall, support, or vanish. A pattern that pretends to be “representation,” while keeping the same hierarchy comfortably in place. Representation without balance isn’t progress—it’s propaganda. And there’s already talk of a sequel. Maybe this time, a new story will emerge. Or maybe Maggie Kang will just double down on the theme that’s worked so well for her: throwing Asian men under the bus.