KPOP DEMON HUNTERS: Where ghouls fear glitter and girl power is a blade

Imagine a world where demons roam Seoul’s neon veins, snatching souls in between subway stops, and the only thing standing in their way are three idol-slash-exorcists with synchrony sharp enough to slice through both possession and patriarchy. Stylishly. Deadly. Glittery.

Directed by Maggie Kang (The Lego Ninjago Movie) and co-directed by Chris Appelhans (Wish Dragon), this animated feature doesn’t just dip its toes into genre fusion — it full-on stage-dives into a mosh pit of magical realism, K-pop spectacle, and supernatural thriller. This visual feast marks Sony Pictures Animation's latest bold swing, and it lands with flair. And guess what? It sticks the landing in platform boots.

The story follows the members of a disbanded K-pop girl group who, years after their peak, are called back to slay not the charts — but demons. Yes, actual demons. Think post-idol angst meets unholy beasts, with a lore-drenched backdrop straight out of a shōnen manga’s fever dream. Their comeback? It’s not for music shows, but for saving humanity.

What begins as a high-concept premise — pop stars versus paranormal evil — crescendos into something far richer: a glitter-stained bildungsroman wrapped in choreography, trauma, and designer hanboks blessed with demon-repelling sigils.

At the center of the chaos is Rumi (voiced with pitch-perfect fragility by Arden Cho), the overworked leader of HUNTRIX — a three-member girl group that moonlights as Seoul’s last line of defense against demonic invasion. Alongside main dancer and no-nonsense choreographer Mira (May Hong), and sunshine rapper-slash-maknae Zoey (Ji-young Yoo), Rumi is chasing not just the charts, but a literal world-saving comeback. One more hit, and the barrier between realms holds. But beneath the spotlight, Rumi is fraying — half-demon, half-idol, and wholly burnt out by the emotional choreography of girlhood and glory.

In this universe, parasocial warfare is no longer just stan Twitter slang — it’s an actual battlefield. Enter the Saja Boys, a freshly debuted rookie group led by the dangerously charming Jinu (Ahn Hyo Seop), whose presence stitched glamour to catastrophe. Their mission? Steal the fanbase of Seoul’s reigning sirens — a demon-hunting girl group who’ve built their fame on talent, tenacity, and trauma. As virality becomes dark magic and fan bases turn into armies, these queens of the supernatural stage are left scrambling for survival. A hit won’t cut it — they need a full-blown sonic exorcism.

A heady sugar rush defines the film’s visual language — think Spider-Verse, but caffeinated with boba and glazed in K-pop concept boards annotated by Book of Revelations margins. Fight scenes blur and snap, moving with a dancer’s timing and a shaman’s force. Across rooftops, glitter-booted idols leap, sigils crackling like pyrotechnics in their wake. The palette? All neon saturation, pastel chaos, and editorial noir. It’s less cartoon, more catwalk — wrecked, radiant, and ready for blood.

And somehow, it works — almost suspiciously well. In this universe, style isn’t an accessory to the action; it is the action. Eyeliner doubles as a protective ward, drawn with the same precision as a summoning circle. A wardrobe change doesn’t just signal a new era; it activates a stat boost. And stage presence? Less about fan service, more about banishing evil through sheer performance energy and perfectly timed hair flips.

Beyond the spectacle, the film stages a clever visual metaphor for idol duality. Glossy 3D animation mirrors their on-cam personas — all crisp choreo, final-boss energy, and fan-ready perfection. Offstage, the switch flips: bubbly, emoji-coded 2D takes over, echoing the messier, meme-filled corners of trainee life. The contrast isn’t just cute — it’s cutting. Beneath the glitter and gritted teeth, they’re still just girls, toggling between concept and self.

Of course, any K-pop venture worth its glitter knows the music has to carry weight — and KPop Demon Hunters comes armed. The soundtrack goes beyond filler: “Takedown,” “Golden,” and “Soda Pop” hit hard not only because they’re tightly produced, for they’re embedded with narrative function. Each track aligns with a turning point, amplifies emotional tension, or triggers something supernatural mid-fight. These aren’t throwaway singles — they’re part of the spellwork.

And the credits? Stacked. The soundtrack sees a full-circle collab with veteran girl group TWICE, the unmistakable sonic fingerprint of BLACKPINK’s Teddy Park, and the emotive pen (and voice) of EJAE — known for her work with Aespa and Red Velvet. She doesn’t just co-produce; she becomes Rumi’s voice. These aren’t mere B-sides — they’re sonic sigils, stitched with heartbreak and hexes.

In effect, both HUNTRIX and Saja Boys don’t just perform — they conjure. Their tracks sound like enchanted scrolls set to synths: sleek, spellbound, and strategically lethal. HUNTRIX channels the mythic polish first cast into the idol canon by GFRIEND and Dreamcatcher — marrying spectral elegance with stage-filling bite. Meanwhile, Saja Boys oscillate between flirty aegyo and dark charisma — a concept shapeshift so smooth, it feels less like marketing and more like bewitchment.

Rumi’s solo drops in the third act, right on cue, and yes it delivers. The vocals go hard, but the real impact is in the shift: this isn’t for a comeback stage, a fanmeet, or a livestream where she has to pretend she slept eight hours. She’s not performing; she’s finally saying something, and the belt just happens to come with it. It’s less vocal flex, more emotional patch note. No rhinestones, no choreography, no PR-approved message; just her, finally choosing the setlist.

In this world, the chorus pulls double duty as a spell circle, and the bridge? That’s where the emotional damage gets patched up before the final boss fight.

More than just a backdrop, the stan-coded fantasy feels lived-in, styled, and soulfully mapped: a top-to-bottom valentine to Korean culture. Namsan Tower glows like a divine seal in the distance; the hanoks of Bukchon feel steeped not just in history, but in quiet magic. Even the antagonist idols, Saja Boys, take visual cues from jeoseung-saja, Korea’s mythic reapers — grounding the fantasy in folklore in lieu of anything akin to “Western vibes.”

The animation team has also acknowledged referencing popular Korean celebrities in the unique visual design of its idol characters, such as ASTRO member Cha Eun-woo for Jinu — a detail eagle-eyed fans are sure to clock immediately.

And the fashion? It serves. Even background characters strut in actual Korean streetwear silhouettes: flared pants, layered neutrals, and idol-grade layering. Nothing is flattened, reduced, or lost in translation. It’s not some nebulous “Asian aesthetic.” It’s distinctly Seoul — curated, modern, and absolutely runway-ready.

And there's its own meta-layer — and this one comes with hashtags. This bleedthrough  doesn’t only content to reference stan culture; it straight-up exalts it. The Honmoon, Seoul’s final psychic barricade against a full-on demonic siege, is fueled by collective parasocial devotion. We're talking fancams-as-incantations, fan chants as warding spells, and enough digital thirst to generate literal magic. It’s both wildly on-brand and unexpectedly reverent, a winking admission that fandom isn’t a footnote — it’s the whole engine.

But here’s where it does more than wink — it kneels. It doesn’t parody the fandom; it sanctifies it. The film knows loving an idol isn’t always just admiration — sometimes, it’s survival. For many, girl groups were more than a soundtrack to adolescence; they raised them. They offered choreography when the world gave chaos. And sometimes, the only thing brighter than the stage lights is the beam of a lightstick held like a talisman in trembling hands.

And if your ears catch the soft swell of Love, Maybe, you’re hearing right. That subtle nod to Business Proposal lands just as a swoon-worthy second lead enters the frame — a sly, serotonin-laced easter egg for drama devotees. Where it could have mocked fan knowledge like a punchline, the film enshrines it instead like gospel: precise, intentional, and tenderly placed, as if to say: “We know you. We see you.”

This isn’t satire. It's a sanctum. The film doesn’t hide behind irony or distance — it commits, fully and reverently, to the idea that fandom can be faith, and pop can be protection. In a world increasingly hard to hold, it dares to say that glitter, too, can be sacred.

KPop Demon Hunters is one part battle anime, one part industry elegy, and one part rhinestone-dusted fever dream — and yet, somehow, all heart. It’s a film that understands girlhood isn’t small or soft or secondary; it’s mythic. That the boundary between performance and possession is often gossamer-thin. And that maybe the most sacred, most terrifying act of power isn’t world domination — it’s three ex-idols harmonizing their truth while a demon boyband crumbles to ash behind them.

It’s messy. It’s camp. It’s occasionally unhinged. And yet — it works. The full-length flick leans so hard into its chaos that it emerges triumphant: a glitter-slick, demon-slicing, genre-bending ode to girlhood, grief, and glowsticks. It’s not perfect. But in its loud, loving excess, it’s kind of brilliant.

And if hell does break loose — as it tends to in stories like this — you’ll want HUNTRIX on your side: mic in one hand, blade in the other, and choreography so precise it could sever dimensions.