In the new spy romance series Tempest, Jun Ji-hyun, one of South Korea’s most celebrated actresses, portrays a diplomat embroiled in a mission to uncover the truth behind a deadly assassination. In one pivotal episode of the Disney+ series, her character poses a stark question: “Why does China prefer war? A nuclear bomb could fall near the border.” This single line of fictional dialogue has erupted into a very real international controversy over the weekend. On Chinese social media, the scene was not received as drama, but as a malicious and belligerent mischaracterization of their country. The backlash was swift and fierce, with a growing chorus of users calling for major brands to sever all ties with the Korean superstar. The uproar has done more than just target an actress; it has forcefully reignited a long-simmering debate over an unofficial Chinese ban on South Korean entertainment that has been in effect for nearly a decade.
While Beijing has never formally acknowledged such a ban, the sudden and near-total disappearance of K-content from the Chinese market since 2016 is widely seen as a retaliatory measure. The move is believed to be a direct protest against South Korea’s decision that year to deploy a US-made anti-missile system, which China views as a significant threat to its own military operations in the region. In recent months, it appeared a thaw was underway, with a few South Korean artists being permitted to hold concerts in China, sparking hope for a cultural reconciliation. However, the fresh controversy swirling around Tempest has triggered a powerful new wave of support for maintaining the ban indefinitely. “Keep the K-drama ban to the death, thank you,” declared one popular comment on the social media platform Weibo, earning over 10,000 likes.
The anger is not limited to that one line of dialogue. Galvanized by the initial offense, social media users have scoured the series for other perceived slights. They pointed to scenes meant to depict the Chinese city of Dalian, which instead featured a collection of dilapidated buildings—believed to have been filmed in Hong Kong—in what many interpreted as an attempt to portray China in a negative light. In another scene that drew ire, a group of characters are seated at a table placed on a red carpet adorned with yellow stars, a design that users claimed was an insulting resemblance to the Chinese flag. Even Jun’s delivery of an ancient Chinese poem became a point of contention, with viewers sharply criticizing what they described as her “wonky” accent. This culmination of grievances has fueled a concerted campaign against the actress on Weibo, where users are relentlessly pressuring global brands to punish her.
According to eagle-eyed social media users, the pressure is already having an effect. American skincare brand La Mer, French luxury house Louis Vuitton, and the Swiss watchmaker Piaget have all reportedly scrubbed any mention of Jun from their Chinese social media accounts. The demands are escalating, with one user posting on Louis Vuitton’s official Weibo account, “Besides removing Jun Ji-hyun advertisements, quickly terminate her contracts globally. Otherwise we’ll boycott LV forever.” In response to the growing storm, Jun’s agency told local news outlet MBC on Tuesday that the brand campaigns in question were “unrelated” to Tempest and had already concluded before the show was even released. This type of pressure campaign is a familiar tactic for Chinese consumers, who have often harnessed their massive collective spending power to protest perceived insults to national pride. Brands from Swedish fashion giant H&M to Japanese clothing chain Uniqlo and, more recently, Swatch—for an ad featuring an allegedly racist gesture—have all found themselves on the receiving end of similar boycotts.
Amid the flood of criticism, some have stepped forward to defend the actress, arguing that she was simply performing a role and did not write the controversial line herself. “Jun Ji-hyun is just an actor. It is impossible for her to understand the history of a country, the emotions of the people, and the intricate relationships between countries before making a movie,” one Weibo user wrote, placing the blame squarely on the “ignorance” of the show’s crew and writers.
However, such voices of moderation have been largely drowned out by a tide of heated opposition. In response to the post defending her, one user retorted, “Even a washing machine can’t whitewash something as well as you.” Another comment forcefully rejected the notion that she was a powerless participant, writing, “She isn’t a small-time actor. She has a choice of script, she can read the script! Who can force a popular star to do this?”
Jun Ji-hyun’s fame is not a recent phenomenon. She swept to pan-Asian stardom with the 2001 romantic comedy My Sassy Girl, a film that took the continent by storm and firmly established her as a quintessential ‘it girl’ of the noughties. Since then, she has maintained her A-list status and found enduring success with major roles in hit series like the 2013 fantasy romance My Love from the Star and the 2021 Netflix thriller Kingdom. Yet, like nearly all her South Korean celebrity peers, she has been conspicuously absent from China’s massive entertainment scene ever since the unofficial ban took hold in 2016.
Earlier this year, optimism for a change had been growing as bilateral ties seemed to be warming. In March, South Korea’s foreign ministry announced that the foreign ministers of both countries had agreed to work on restoring cultural exchanges. This was followed by a significant breakthrough in April, when the South Korean hip-hop group Homies became the first all-Korean act to perform in mainland China in nearly a decade.
Despite these positive signs, it remains difficult to predict how much of a comeback K-pop and K-dramas will be allowed to make in what was once their largest overseas market. In May, the K-pop boy band Epex was scheduled to perform in Fuzhou, an event anticipated as a landmark concert for the genre in China. But just weeks before the show, their management agency abruptly cancelled, citing vague “local circumstances.” More recently, when asked about the postponement of another concert in Hainan province set to feature multiple K-pop groups, Chinese foreign ministry spokesperson Lin Jian stated only that China did not oppose “beneficial cultural exchanges” with South Korea.
Over the last decade, China has cultivated its own formidable pop culture industry, a juggernaut fully capable of keeping its population of 1.3 billion entertained with a vast array of homegrown media. For many Chinese viewers, the ongoing controversy surrounding Tempest has simply provided them with another compelling reason to turn away from Korean content for good. As one Weibo user succinctly put it, “It’s already 2025 and you’re still watching K-dramas, how tacky!”
