Just like many of us, the British Royal Family has its own set of television favorites. The viewing preferences of the Prince and Princess of Wales reportedly span a diverse range, from the dance competition “Strictly Come Dancing” to the reality show “The Kardashians” and the espionage thriller “Black Doves.”

Recently, a song from the Netflix hit “KPop Demon Hunters”—an animated musical featuring a Korean girl band that battles evil spirits—was performed at Buckingham Palace. This has led to speculation about the film’s popularity among the royals.

The buzz began when Ivy Brown, a young student from Wokingham, Berkshire, penned a letter to Princess Charlotte—the ten-year-old daughter of the Waleses—calling the movie the “best film ever.”

Shortly afterward, Kensington Palace officials reached out to thank the six-year-old for her letter. They intriguingly pointed out that “Golden,” the highest-charting song from the film’s soundtrack, was played during the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.

Understandably, Ivy was thrilled with the response. “I think Charlotte loves KPop Demon Hunters, so I’m happy,” she expressed joyfully.

While this charming story captures hearts, it’s important to note a darker side. “Demon Hunters” is a byproduct of the often controversial £10 billion K-pop industry, where children as young as ten are rigorously trained to become pop stars. This industry is known for its strict weight control measures and even pressures young performers into cosmetic surgery, setting the backdrop for the successful film.

According to music insiders, the origins of K-pop date back to April 1992 when a group called Seo Taiji and Boys appeared on the Seoul-based Munhwa Broadcasting Corporation.

KPop Demon Hunters – the animated musical in which a Korean girl band slay evil spirits – has been performed at Buckingham Palace, prompting speculation about the film’s popularity

Their music incorporated various influences familiar to Western audiences, including rap, hip-hop and traditional rock, but it was largely new to South Korean ears.

 They sold more than two million albums the following year and, with their outspoken lyrics triggering reform of strict censorship regulations, the K-pop era was born.

Yet the business developed in a very different way from the British and American music industries. 

While so-called ‘manufactured’ acts have existed in Western pop at least since the emergence of The Monkees in the mid-1960s, they’ve generally been the exception. The entire world of K-pop is, by contrast, carefully orchestrated by a small number of all-powerful executives.

In fact, the industry has been under the rigid control of four large companies almost from the beginning. The first and best known, SM Entertainment, was set up by Lee Soo-man, who had enjoyed a career as a clean-cut pop singer in the 1970s.

He moved to California in the early 1980s to work in computer engineering, but his time in the US coincided with the rise of MTV and the emergence of Michael Jackson as a global megastar. 

According to one report, he returned home in 1985 ‘with a vision of what the Korean music industry could be’. 

Soo-man, now 73, is credited with developing the controversial ‘idol’ regime that remains the hallmark of the K-pop scene to this day. Under the system, aspiring performers have little option but to try their luck with the hundreds of other hopefuls auditioning on a daily basis for the big agencies.

Yet it is the next stage that explains why the Korean showbusiness industry, according to one commentator, ‘more often seems like a demented cross between Soviet Olympics gymnastics programs and the Mickey Mouse Club’, a show where children performed in musical and dance competitions wearing mouse ears, which ran until 1996.

Kensington Palace wrote back to a six-year-old royal fan, who had sent a letter to Princess Charlotte describing Demon Hunters as the ‘best movie ever’

Successful applicants are taken on as trainees and sent to specialist residential schools where they are given lessons in singing, dancing and acting.

They also receive media training as well as tuition in another language such as English or Japanese. Traineeships last for an indefinite period and can range from months to years.

It is a gruelling regime that has been more than once likened to a ‘showbiz boot camp’. 

Yet with figures suggesting that it cost north of £2 million to train each member of Girls’ Generation – an eight-piece band that emerged more than a decade ago – it is entirely predictable that the music moguls expect their pound of flesh.

Participants are required to project an unswervingly wholesome image and refrain from any controversial behaviour or comments.

While they must all stick to strict weight targets, some are also ordered to change their appearance by undergoing nose jobs such as rhinoplasties and other cosmetic procedures.

Nor is there any guarantee of work at the end of it all. One music industry insider says: ‘Even by the standards of the entertainment world, it is a ruthless environment.

Figures suggest that it cost more than £2million to train each member of Girls’ Generation – an eight-piece band that emerged more than a decade ago

‘Hundreds, maybe thousands of young kids are just thrown on the scrapheap every year. At the end of their training, someone decides that there isn’t a place for them in the next hit group or that they haven’t got what it takes to be a solo performer – and that’s the end of it. It makes the Western showbusiness milieu look like some sort of benevolent society by comparison.’

Nonetheless, there is no shortage of youngsters queueing up to try their luck. It is estimated that SM Entertainment alone gets about 300,000 applicants from nine countries every year.

Even for those who make the grade, life is seldom easy. They are often locked into ten-year contracts with modest wages and packed daily schedules – and complaints about bullying and exploitation are common. 

Nor is it unusual for entertainment firms to ban any kind of dating in case it lessens performers’ appeal to fans. 

There is also a recurring problem involving the most obsessive fans – known as ‘sasaeng’ – breaking into stars’ homes and staging occasionally violent protests in support of their idols.

Meanwhile, the performers must get used to having practically every moment of their lives choreographed. Each member of a K-pop act is given a specific, highly regimented role that carries over into what little private life they have.

For example, the group ‘leader’ is expected to resolve internal conflicts, act as public spokesman and deal with the management. The ‘main visual’ – described as the ‘face’ of the group – is expected to attract commercial opportunities and bring in new fans.

Members are also routinely assigned an individual persona – requiring them to appear mysterious or moody or funny, for instance – that they must stick to on a 24/7 basis. Unsurprisingly, the burn-out rate is high.

For its part, KPop Demon Hunters follows the fortunes of a massively successful, fictional trio called Huntr/x. 

According to a synopsis of the film, the female group members also ‘use their secret identities as badass demon hunters to protect their fans from an ever-present supernatural threat’. 

The storyline focuses on the girls as they ‘face their biggest enemy yet – an irresistible rival boy band of demons in disguise’.

It is, of course, a fantasy plot designed to appeal to an audience of impressionable youngsters in their pre- and early teens. 

Yet it also shows the three protagonists – Rumi, Mira and Zoey – as exhausted, overworked and existing on a diet of junk food. Perhaps it isn’t all that divorced from reality, after all.