By Seo Yeon & Rebecca Cooper / ANW
November 18, 2025
In the neon-lit world of Netflix’s blockbuster animated hit KPop Demon Hunters, the protagonist Rumi grapples with a fractured sense of self—torn between her human roots and demonic heritage while leading a K-pop girl group against otherworldly threats.
For voice actress Arden Cho, who brings Rumi to life, the role wasn’t just a gig; it was a haunting reflection of her own turbulent journey as a Korean-American navigating racism, identity, and the elusive promise of belonging.
At 40, Cho recalls her Texas childhood with raw honesty. Born to Korean immigrant parents, she internalized the era’s narrow beauty standards.
“I hated that I looked Asian, that I didn’t have blue eyes and blonde hair, because that’s what was beautiful at the time,” she told BBC Global Women in an exclusive interview.
As the eldest daughter in a family striving for the American Dream, Cho felt the weight of cultural displacement acutely.
“Being born in America, feeling American but having people treat me like I’m not—that’s the core of it,” she said. “Trying to figure out my identity as an Asian-American, as a Korean-American, as a woman.”
These echoes resonated deeply when Cho first encountered the script for KPop Demon Hunters, directed by Sony Pictures Animation and released on Netflix in June.
The film, which blends high-octane demon-slaying with infectious K-pop anthems, follows Rumi and her bandmates—voiced by Ji-Young Yoo and May Hong—as they balance global stardom with supernatural duties.
Rumi’s arc of self-acceptance mirrored Cho’s scars. “I can honestly say that at different points in my life, I hated a lot of myself and I wanted to be someone else,” Cho admitted. “As kids, what you see shapes who you become, and I feel like I just didn’t see enough people that look like me.”
The film’s meteoric rise underscores its cultural hunger. In its first two weeks, it amassed 33 million views, storming the top 10 in 93 countries and crowning Netflix’s global charts.
As the first major Hollywood animated feature set entirely in Korea with Korean leads, it shattered barriers. For Cho, it was “a dream come true”—a chance to star in a story that celebrates her heritage without apology. “To be part of something that puts Korea front and center, with leads who look like us, feels revolutionary,” she said.
The success has rippled far beyond screens, igniting pride among Korean-Americans long starved for representation.
Fans have flooded Cho’s inbox with stories of newfound self-love. “Many Korean-Americans have told me it’s such a refreshing moment,” she shared.
“Making them proud for the first time of their dual heritage and culture.” Cho credits K-pop’s global domination and the K-beauty boom for priming the pump.
“K-Pop really has paved the way. K-beauty has had such a big impact on Korea being loved. But I feel like this movie is the one that tipped it over the edge—everybody wants to go to Korea now.”
Yet, triumph came with tension. Behind the glossy animation, the production team fought an “uphill battle,” Cho revealed. “It kind of sucks to say this, but any time there’s an Asian-led project, people feel like it’s a risk.”
To counter skepticism, Cho went all-in, meeting animators and crew in person to infuse authenticity.
Her efforts paid off: the soundtrack’s seven tracks have colonized the Billboard Hot 100, spawning fan art, cosplay conventions, and fervent sequel petitions.
“I know there’s lots of murmurs—I’ve heard wonderful things,” Cho teased. “Everyone in the world would riot if there wasn’t one.”
But as KPop Demon Hunters unites audiences in joy, it lands amid darker national currents. The film’s June premiere coincided with the Trump administration’s escalated immigration raids, targeting undocumented residents in sweeps across cities like Chicago, Los Angeles, and now Charlotte, where federal agents arrested 130 people last week.
Korean news outlets estimate up to 150,000 Korean immigrants— including adopted children—face deportation risks. For Cho, a U.S.-born citizen, the crackdown is “heartbreaking and disappointing.” “Immigrants have made America what it is,” she said, her voice steady but laced with sorrow.
Reflecting on her youth, Cho traces much of the racism she endured to ignorance. “As an adult, I came to realize it stemmed mainly from a lack of education—people didn’t know what it meant to be Korean or Asian.”
A poignant photo she shared captures this: a young Cho, mid-dance at a competition, frozen in a frilled costume, legs crossed in playful defiance.
Today, that innocence feels endangered. “Now in this day and age, when the world should know better, it is beyond disappointing. Sometimes I feel like we feel so hopeless.”
In this climate, KPop Demon Hunters emerges as a beacon. “It brings hope and joy and love to all these different communities,” Cho said. “Maybe that’s why it’s the movie of the summer—we just needed something to unite us.”
The film’s demon-battling trio, with their swords and synth-pop hooks, symbolizes resilience: ordinary girls extraordinary in their otherness.
Broader K-pop currents amplify its timeliness. Just last week, NewJeans announced a triumphant return to their label after a bitter legal feud, while global girl group Katseye weathered thousands of death threats from toxic fandoms.
Even tragedies shadow the scene—a South Korean actress and K-pop star recently fought off a home intruder, and U.S. coach John Beam, featured in Netflix’s Last Chance U, was fatally shot on a California campus.
Amid geopolitical strains, like the U.S. pledging nuclear submarine aid to South Korea against North Korean threats, cultural exports like this film forge unlikely bridges.
Looming larger is AI’s specter over Hollywood. Cho, wary of voice-cloning tech already mimicking actors, clings to optimism.
“Sure, they’re going to have AI actors and singers—I know our voices are already being manipulated,” she said.
“But I hope people have some respect and want love for something real.” For her, humanity’s spark in storytelling trumps algorithms every time.
As murmurs of a sequel swell, Cho holds space for the little girl she once was—the one craving mirrors in media. KPop Demon Hunters isn’t just entertainment; it’s exorcism, slaying inner demons one verse at a time.
In a divided world, Rumi’s sword cuts through: identity isn’t a curse, but a superpower. And for Asian-American kids tuning in, Cho whispers through the speakers: You’re seen. You’re enough.
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