Netflix’s ‘Bloodhounds’ Is Your Next K-Drama Binge

At just eight tightly-wound episodes, Bloodhounds is a phenomenal work of pathos-riddled suspense and an especially interesting K-Drama to emerge from the country’s massively successful Netflix partnership. K-Dramas produced by Netflix, rather than the ones aired on local South Korean networks and globally distributed by Netflix, tend to take full advantage of the greater creative freedom the streaming giant affords. AKA, more violence, more sex, and more graphic material in general, whether visual or thematic.

As a thriller, Bloodhounds slots neatly in beside other suspenseful Netflix-backed crime dramas like My Name, The Glory, and Little Women. It deals with unrelentingly dark subjects as harshly as if it dumped itself in a vat of blood, and doesn’t flinch away from said themes or from flying fake blood. Yet Bloodhounds strikes a magnificent, fascinating balance between the calcified violent imagery common to Netflix K-Dramas and the triumphant character-based optimism of Korea’s more traditional broadcast series.

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What Is ‘Bloodhounds’ About?

Korean media frequently examines the flaws of their country’s socioeconomic systems with particular emphasis on how these structures negatively and inordinately affect those of lesser economic status and social class (which includes ostracized gender identities and sexual orientations). Dramas address these notions across all genres: revenge, thriller, romantic drama, and rom-com alike. A popular joke among K-Drama fans is how a supposedly light-hearted series always has a heartbreakingly dark reveal up its sleeve.

Bloodhounds almost relishes in its deconstruction of capitalism and the need for redemptive action, except nothing can be viewed as emotional trauma porn; it’s mere honesty. Starring Woo Do-hwan and Lee Sang-yi, the series follows Kim Geon-woo (Woo) and Hong Woo-jin (Lee), two aspiring young boxers. The COVID-19 pandemic has shuttered their career hopes and financially compromised countless small business owners, including Geon-woo’s mother Yoon So-yeon (Yoon Yoo-sun). When powerful loan sharks operating under the guise of the Smile Capital company take advantage of So-yeon’s financial destitution by tricking her into an unfair contract, then destroy her shop and threaten her person when she fails to deliver money she can’t possibly earn, Geon-woo and Woo-jin choose to fight this threat rather than flee. The problem lies in how Smile Capital’s CEO Kim Myeong-gil (Park Sung-woong) is a sadistic criminal with a limitless capacity for cruelty.

In Bloodhounds’ world, COVID-19 opened up a new avenue of exploitation. The impossibly rich Myeong-gil’s malice is so immense, he’s forced many of his victims to take their lives if he doesn’t execute them himself. His company’s greed extends to stealing homeless individuals’ IDs. Nothing is beneath him. Set against this are Geon-woo and Woo-jin, also known as the goodest good boys of all time. Geon-woo adores his mother and is a natural protector of the defenseless. He’s a young man so unassuming and genuine that he believes any situation can be bested “with a good heart,” something he promises he “always” possesses no matter the circumstances. He also believes no one is beyond redemption if they truly try; what matters in life is finding your way back from corruption.

Meanwhile, Woo-jin is the human incarnation of an excited, adoring puppy, responsible for most of the show’s comedic relief until he’s suddenly bleeding heart and viewers are sobbing in fear over his fate. The pair’s amiable and unplanned friendship becomes an unbreakable bond forged in the fire of Myeong-gil’s persecution. They draw strength from one another and survive only thanks to the actual power of friendship. This is a love story, and they love unreservedly.

‘Bloodhounds’ Blends Optimism With Harsh Reality

At its thematic heart, Bloodhounds isn’t a story about boxing. Much like Rocky focuses more on the characters than the sport, it’s concerned with the “heart of a boxer” and how that equals the heart of a tirelessly earnest person. Geon-woo and Woo-jin are soon joined by Cha Hyun-joo (Kim Sae-ron), the adopted granddaughter of former loan executive Choi Tae-ho (Huh Joon-ho). The brothers-in-blood become a trio who fight against corruption first because life demands, then by choice. They share the same sincerity and moral conviction: good people like them do battle with against horrible institutions because that’s the honorable thing. They become protectors and remain as much even when their mentor figures (Choi Tae-ho and his employees) are reformed criminals trying to atone for the harm they once caused. (Sadly but appropriately, Tae-ho’s past actions are what created and empowered Myeong-gil, a devil he has no choice except to eliminate.)

That earnestness doesn’t come with rose-colored glasses, which is where Bloodhounds’ brutality emerges. No character is safe; Episode 6 in particular will make you want to sue for emotional damages. Love powers our characters and saves the day in all technicalities, but not everyone magically survives. And as Geon-woo and Woo-jin find themselves more ensnared in the loan industry underworld, endure more violence, and watch more people they love slaughtered by the seemingly unstoppable Myeong-gil, the protagonists inflict greater violence in the name of justice.

As such, Bloodhounds examines how fighting a system as warped and massive as capitalism leaves little room for keeping one’s hands morally clean. It’s punch-the-air satisfying to watch Geon-woo and Woo-jin have a power-up training montage before knocking their enemies’ lights out. Yet for all their momentary triumph, there’s the regret of the aftermath. They don’t become the monster to destroy the monster, but they dance inside its cage and emerge with scars. Hard-won survival doesn’t have easy exemptions for those with good hearts. Bloodhounds is optimism at a cost.

‘Bloodhounds’ Is One of Netflix’s Best New K-Dramas

The series also offers reluctant group hugs (the grumpy versus sunshine dynamic!), enduring friendships, and remarkable fight scenes. Bloodhounds’ choreography taps into boxing’s grace and dynamic ferocity. It’s a visually interesting change to watch its techniques applied to a massive two-on-thirty fight scene. The seamlessly charismatic Woo Do-hwan of My Country: The New Age and Joseon Attorney pours his everything into a performance that burns onto one’s retinas. Lee Sang-yi of Once Again and Hometown Cha-Cha-Cha (and the music group MSG Wannabe) finally gets the leading man to focus his skill warrants, and, to use a different sports metaphor, scores an effortless touchdown.

Bloodhounds isn’t what you expect in the most satisfying ways. The series might not necessarily tell an original thematic story, but it’s an easy binge, incredibly well executed, and easily one of 2023’s best new releases. All eight episodes are available to stream on Netflix.