The Outlaws (2017) Explained: Inside Korea’s Real Crime City

Table of Contents

How The Outlaws (2017) Rewrote The Korean Crime Movie Rulebook

If you talk to Koreans about modern crime movies, The Outlaws (Korean title: 범죄도시, literally “Crime City”) comes up almost instantly. Released in October 2017, this gritty action film starring Ma Dong-seok (Don Lee) and Yoon Kye-sang did something very rare in Korean cinema: it turned a mid-budget R-rated crime movie into a long-lasting cultural phenomenon that still shapes how we talk, joke, and even imagine cops and gangsters in Seoul.

From a Korean perspective, The Outlaws matters for three big reasons. First, it is based on a real incident: the 2004 “Heuksapa” (Black Society) gang sweep in Garibong-dong, a neighborhood in western Seoul known for its Chinese-Korean community. Koreans immediately recognized the setting, the dialects, and the uneasy tension between local Korean gangs and ethnic Chinese-Korean organizations. The movie didn’t just use crime as a backdrop; it dramatized a specific time and place that many Koreans remember from news headlines.

Second, The Outlaws reinvented the “jjakkae” (tough guy) hero for the 2010s. Ma Dong-seok’s character Ma Seok-do is physically overwhelming but emotionally grounded, a kind of “ajeossi hero” (middle-aged man hero) that Korean audiences found both hilarious and reassuring. He’s not a sleek, Hollywood-style detective. He’s the kind of cop you imagine eating jokbal at 2 a.m. in a small pojangmacha, then going out to break up a fight with his bare hands.

Third, The Outlaws quietly built one of the most reliable Korean film franchises. What started as a single film became The Roundup series, with sequels released in 2022, 2023, and 2024, each time dominating the box office. Yet in Korea, people still refer to the whole franchise as “범죄도시 1, 2, 3, 4” – and the first film, The Outlaws, remains the benchmark. If you want to understand why this one movie keeps generating sequels, memes, and references years later, you have to go back to Garibong-dong in 2017 and see what The Outlaws captured about Korean society at that moment.

Snapshot Of The Outlaws: What Global Viewers Should Notice

Based on real events
The Outlaws is inspired by the 2004 “Garibong-dong Heuksapa incident,” where Seoul police conducted a massive operation against a Chinese-Korean gang in the Garibong area. Koreans who watched the film in 2017 still remembered TV news footage about Chinese-Korean gangs and violent turf wars.
Box office overachiever
With a modest budget (reported around 6–7 billion KRW), The Outlaws drew about 6.88 million admissions in Korea, making it one of 2017’s biggest local hits. It outperformed many bigger, star-studded projects and became a word-of-mouth success.
Birth of the Ma Seok-do archetype
Ma Dong-seok’s character is now so iconic that many Koreans just call him “Ma Seok-do 형사” (Detective Ma Seok-do) as if he’s a real cop. His mix of brute strength, dad jokes, and neighborhood ajusshi vibe felt uniquely Korean.
Villain that shocked Koreans
Yoon Kye-sang’s portrayal of Jang Chen, a cold-blooded ethnic Chinese-Korean gang leader, was a major surprise because Koreans knew him first as an idol from g.o.d. The contrast between his past image and his terrifying performance made the villain unforgettable.
Guro–Garibong realism
The film’s detailed depiction of Guro and Garibong – narrow alleys, Chinese-Korean restaurants, run-down bars, mixed signage in Korean and Chinese – resonated strongly with Korean viewers who know these areas as real migrant and working-class spaces.
Launchpad for a franchise
The Outlaws became the foundation for a four-film (and counting) series, rebranded internationally as The Roundup. Yet in Korea, fans still call the first movie “범죄도시 1” and treat it as the most grounded and realistic entry.
Quotable dialogue
Lines like “야, 이 새끼야” delivered in Ma Dong-seok’s casual tone or Jang Chen’s chilling threats became memes. The specific blend of dialect, slang, and casual profanity is very Korean and often softened in subtitles.

From Garibong To Global: The Cultural And Historical Roots Of The Outlaws

To really understand The Outlaws from a Korean perspective, you need to know Garibong-dong, Chinese-Korean communities, and the crime-film lineage it inherits.

Garibong-dong, located in Seoul’s Guro District, developed as a working-class and industrial area from the 1970s onward. By the late 1990s and early 2000s, it had become a major hub for Joseonjok (ethnic Koreans from China) and other Chinese migrants. Koreans associated Garibong with cheap labor, migrant boarding houses, and nightlife businesses. When the real Heuksapa incident broke out in 2004, TV news showed shocking scenes of machetes, iron pipes, and gang fights in exactly these cramped alleys.

The Outlaws directly channels this memory. The production team reportedly researched the Garibong area and real gang cases to shape its atmosphere. The police crackdown in the film mirrors the real joint operation that involved hundreds of officers. Korean viewers in 2017 felt the movie was not some abstract crime fantasy but an exaggerated, yet recognizable, version of what they had seen in the news about 10–15 years earlier.

Historically, Korean crime cinema had already gone through several phases: the stylized gangster sagas of Friend (2001), the noir-tinged films like A Bittersweet Life (2005), and more character-driven works like Nameless Gangster (2012). However, by the mid-2010s, many viewers felt the genre was becoming repetitive or too polished. The Outlaws brought back a raw, almost documentary-like street energy, combined with mainstream humor.

Director Kang Yoon-sung, making his feature debut, leaned into realism: handheld cameras, on-location shooting in cramped streets, and fight choreography that emphasized weight and impact rather than flashy moves. This grounded approach, combined with Ma Dong-seok’s physical presence, made even simple punches feel heavy and believable.

The Outlaws also arrived in a period when Korean society was increasingly debating multiculturalism, migrant labor, and ethnic tensions. The portrayal of Chinese-Korean gangs reflects long-standing anxieties but also stereotypes. In Korea, there was some discussion about whether the film reinforced negative images of Joseonjok communities. Yet many locals felt the movie was depicting a specific historical moment, not all Chinese-Koreans.

In the last 30–90 days, The Outlaws continues to trend in Korea largely because of the ongoing success of its sequels. The Roundup: Punishment (범죄도시4), released in 2024, pushed many younger viewers to go back and watch the original The Outlaws on streaming platforms like Netflix (region-dependent) and local services such as Wavve and TVING. Korean film sites like Naver Movie and KOBIS show periodic spikes in search volume for The Outlaws each time a new sequel hits theaters.

On social media, Korean users on DC Inside and YouTube keep uploading comparison clips of “범죄도시 1 vs 2 vs 3 vs 4,” and in almost every comment section, you’ll find posts saying, “Still, the first one is the most realistic” or “The Outlaws is the one that felt like real Garibong.” This ongoing conversation shows that the original film has become a reference point, not just a starting chapter.

Culturally, The Outlaws sits at the intersection of real crime history, urban change in Seoul, and evolving attitudes toward ethnic minorities. That combination is precisely why Koreans still discuss it not only as entertainment but as a snapshot of an era.

Inside The Outlaws: Story, Characters, And What Global Viewers Miss

The Outlaws follows Detective Ma Seok-do and his team from the Seoul Serious Crime Unit as they struggle to control escalating gang violence in Garibong-dong. The narrative centers on a turf war between local Korean gangs and a ruthless Chinese-Korean group led by Jang Chen, who arrives from Yanbian and starts violently restructuring the underworld.

From a Korean perspective, the plot feels like a compressed version of real urban crime dynamics. The film’s early scenes show Ma Seok-do casually negotiating with local gangsters, trying to keep “order” rather than completely eradicating crime. This reflects a very Korean cinematic trope: the idea that cops and gangsters have an unspoken understanding, especially in neighborhoods where everyone knows each other.

Ma Seok-do’s characterization is crucial. He speaks in casual, slightly rough Seoul dialect, constantly using banmal (informal speech) even to gangsters, which signals dominance in Korean culture. When he says lines like “야, 조용히 좀 해라” (“Hey, keep it down, will you”), the nuance is that he treats dangerous criminals like noisy kids. This power dynamic often gets flattened in subtitles that simply say “Be quiet” or “Calm down.”

Jang Chen, on the other hand, speaks in a mixed accent that hints at his Chinese-Korean background. Korean audiences immediately pick up on his unusual intonation and slightly off-standard pronunciation. This linguistic detail marks him as an outsider, heightening the sense of unpredictability. His casual use of extreme violence, delivered with almost bored facial expressions, feels especially shocking because Koreans remember Yoon Kye-sang as a gentle idol from g.o.d. That casting choice adds an extra layer of discomfort: a familiar, “safe” celebrity turned into a monster.

The film’s violence is stylized but grounded. Fights are messy: knives, hammers, improvised weapons. Koreans often comment that the restaurant fight scenes and narrow alley chases feel like real CCTV clips they’ve seen in news reports about gang brawls. Unlike some Western action films, The Outlaws avoids overly choreographed martial-arts style moves. Ma Seok-do’s fighting style is basically “hit hard, grab, slam.” This matches Ma Dong-seok’s real-life background in boxing and personal training.

One key cultural element is the depiction of the police station and team dynamics. You see a hierarchical structure with senior detectives scolding juniors, lots of yelling, and informal language even on duty. For Koreans, this is instantly recognizable as “Korean office culture in a cop setting”: strict seniority, but also a sense of family-like banter. When they share food or argue over petty issues while chasing brutal killers, it’s not just comic relief; it reflects how Korean workplaces function under stress.

The Outlaws also plays with the idea of “jjintta” gangsters versus “real” gangsters. Some local thugs are portrayed as almost pathetic, more bark than bite, while Jang Chen’s crew represents a new, hyper-violent generation. In Korean online discussions, people often joke that The Outlaws shows the “upgrade patch” of Korean gangs in the 2000s: from neighborhood bullies to globalized, transnational crime.

Finally, the climax – a brutal street and building chase leading to a one-on-one confrontation – carries strong symbolic weight. Ma Seok-do’s victory is not just personal; it feels like the state (and old-school Korean toughness) reasserting control over chaotic, globalized crime. For Korean viewers, this taps into deeper anxieties about social order, foreign influence, and the hope that somewhere out there is a cop like Ma who will keep the chaos in check.

What Only Koreans Tend To Notice About The Outlaws

When I talk to international fans, they usually praise The Outlaws for its raw action and charismatic performances. But there are several layers of meaning that Koreans pick up almost instinctively.

First, the Garibong setting is not just a random “bad neighborhood.” Older Koreans remember when Guro and Garibong were central to Seoul’s manufacturing boom in the 1970s–80s, filled with factories and blue-collar workers. By the 2000s, as industries moved out, the area became a symbol of urban decline and migrant influx. So when the film opens on these streets, Korean viewers immediately connect it to economic change and social inequality.

Second, the portrayal of Chinese-Korean gangsters taps into long-standing media narratives. In Korean news, Joseonjok have often been unfairly stereotyped as violent or criminal, especially in the 2000s. Many Koreans are aware this is an oversimplification, but the image persists. The Outlaws leans into that stereotype for dramatic effect. Inside Korea, there were discussions on forums about whether the film might reinforce prejudice. Yet others argued that the movie focuses on a specific real gang case, not an entire community.

Third, the humor is deeply Korean. Ma Seok-do’s lines often rely on subtle shifts in speech level and vocabulary. For example, he mixes polite and rude expressions in one sentence, a very Korean way of showing that he’s half-joking but still asserting dominance. Subtitles usually flatten this nuance. When he calls someone “야, 인마,” it’s like saying “Hey, you punk,” but depending on tone, it can be almost affectionate. Koreans can feel this layered tone; foreigners mostly just see “angry cop.”

Fourth, many Koreans know that Ma Dong-seok’s tough image is grounded in reality. Before becoming a top actor, he worked as a trainer and bodyguard (he’s famously said to have trained MMA fighter Mark Coleman). This real-life background makes his on-screen punches feel believable. Korean audiences often comment, “If Ma Dong-seok hits you like that, you’re really going to the hospital.” That physical authenticity is part of why The Outlaws hit so hard.

Behind the scenes, there’s also an industry story. The Outlaws was not expected to be a mega-hit. It released during Chuseok season 2017 against other big titles. But strong word-of-mouth, especially among male audiences in their 20s–40s, pushed it to nearly 7 million admissions. In Korean film circles, people still talk about The Outlaws as a case study in “reverse hit” – a film that starts modestly but grows through audience buzz rather than massive pre-release hype.

Another Korean-specific angle is how The Outlaws influenced the perception of “K-crime” globally. Before this, international viewers often associated Korean cinema with arthouse thrillers like Memories of Murder or psychological works like Oldboy. The Outlaws showed a different face: a more populist, punchy, and crowd-pleasing style. Inside Korea, critics noted that the film successfully mixed genre conventions (cop vs. gang) with uniquely Korean workplace banter and social context.

Finally, Koreans also see The Outlaws as a turning point for Yoon Kye-sang. Many grew up with him as an idol in the early 2000s. Watching him transform into Jang Chen – with his dead-eyed stare and cruel smile – felt almost like witnessing a “corruption arc” of a beloved celebrity. This emotional shock amplified the villain’s impact for Korean viewers in a way that international fans, who may not know g.o.d’s history, might not fully feel.

Measuring The Outlaws: Comparisons, Franchise Growth, And Global Reach

The Outlaws didn’t just succeed on its own; it laid the foundation for a steadily escalating franchise that Koreans now casually call the “범죄도시 universe.” To understand its impact, it helps to compare it with its own sequels and with other Korean crime films.

Here’s a simplified comparison from a Korean audience perspective:

Film / Aspect	Tone & Style	Korean Audience Perception
The Outlaws (2017)	Gritty, grounded, neighborhood-scale crime in Garibong	“Most realistic, best balance of humor and tension, feels like real Seoul crime.”
The Roundup (2022)	Bigger scale, Vietnam setting, more blockbuster feel	“Fun and slick, Ma Seok-do becomes almost superhero-like, less gritty than 1.”
The Roundup: No Way Out (2023)	Multiple villains, Tokyo connection, more stylized action	“Entertaining but more cartoonish; 1 is still the purest crime story.”
The Roundup: Punishment (2024)	Cybercrime elements, even larger scope	“Franchise-level spectacle; makes people rewatch The Outlaws to remember the roots.”

Compared with other iconic Korean crime films:

Film	Focus	How The Outlaws Differs
Nameless Gangster (2012)	1980s–90s Busan corruption, political ties	The Outlaws is more street-level, less political, more direct cop-vs-gang confrontation.
New World (2013)	Undercover cop in large crime syndicate	The Outlaws emphasizes physical confrontation and local territory, not internal syndicate politics.
A Dirty Carnival (2006)	Ambitious low-level gangster’s rise and fall	The Outlaws centers on police perspective and community safety rather than gangster psychology.

In terms of impact, The Outlaws did something crucial: it proved that a crime-action film centered on a middle-aged, bulky lead could become a mainstream commercial powerhouse. Before this, many Korean hits leaned on younger, more conventionally handsome stars. Ma Dong-seok’s success here helped normalize the “ajeossi action hero” archetype, influencing casting decisions across the industry.

Globally, the film’s influence has been amplified retroactively by the sequels. International distribution for The Outlaws was initially limited, but as The Roundup series gained traction – especially with The Roundup (2022) becoming a major box-office success in Korea and getting wider festival and streaming exposure – foreign viewers started to seek out the original. For many, The Outlaws now functions as an “origin story” for Ma Seok-do.

On Korean streaming platforms, you can see a pattern: whenever a new sequel is announced or released, The Outlaws climbs the “most watched” rankings again. This cyclical resurgence shows that the film has become a reference point, not a one-time success. In marketing materials for later entries, distributors often highlight the original’s admission numbers and critical praise, using it as a quality stamp.

Culturally, The Outlaws also set a template for blending brutal violence with broad comedy in a way that feels uniquely Korean. You can see its DNA in later works where tough, almost absurdly strong protagonists navigate bureaucratic systems and chaotic crime scenes with deadpan humor. It’s not that The Outlaws invented this tone, but it crystallized it in a way that resonated with a wide demographic, from college students to taxi drivers.

Among Korean film critics, there’s an ongoing debate: some argue that the sequels have turned Ma Seok-do into an almost invincible superhero, losing the grounded tension of the first film. Others counter that the franchise’s growth proves how flexible the original concept was. But almost everyone agrees on one point: without the raw, neighborhood-level intensity of The Outlaws, there would be no Roundup franchise at all.

Why The Outlaws Matters In Korean Society Beyond Entertainment

For many Koreans, The Outlaws is more than a crime flick; it’s a cultural mirror reflecting anxieties about safety, multicultural neighborhoods, and trust in institutions.

First, the film taps into fear and fascination with urban violence. Seoul is statistically a relatively safe city, but sensational crime cases – especially involving gangs, foreign nationals, or extreme brutality – get intense media coverage. The Outlaws borrows visual and narrative cues from real news reports: flashing police lights in cramped alleys, interviews with shaken shop owners, the sense that violence can erupt in ordinary streets. Watching Ma Seok-do restore order offers a kind of vicarious reassurance.

Second, the film intersects with debates about multiculturalism in Korea. The presence of Chinese-Korean gangs in Garibong is not purely fictional. Yet the majority of Joseonjok in Korea are workers, small business owners, and families. The Outlaws dramatizes the worst-case scenario of transnational crime infiltrating vulnerable urban spaces. Inside Korea, this has sometimes been used (unfairly) to justify suspicion toward entire communities. At the same time, the film also shows Korean gangsters as greedy and corrupt, suggesting that crime is not imported but co-produced by local and foreign elements.

Third, The Outlaws reflects how Koreans imagine “good cops.” In many Korean dramas and films, police are portrayed as either incompetent or corrupt. Ma Seok-do is different: he’s rough, bends rules, and uses violence, but his moral compass is never in doubt. He represents a fantasy of the “strong but honest cop” who can cut through red tape and bureaucracy. In a society where public trust in institutions can be shaky, this fantasy is powerful.

Fourth, the film contributed to the normalization of middle-aged masculinity as heroic. In a youth-obsessed entertainment industry, The Outlaws celebrates a protagonist who looks like a typical Korean ajusshi: thick arms, big belly, casual T-shirts, unfashionable jackets. This resonated especially with male audiences in their 30s–50s, who saw a version of themselves on screen not as a joke, but as the ultimate protector.

Finally, The Outlaws has become a common reference point in Korean everyday speech. People jokingly call particularly tough or bulky men “Ma Seok-do,” and when someone acts overly confident in a confrontation, others might say, “You think you’re in 범죄도시 or what?” This casual referencing shows that the movie has moved from cinema into daily culture.

In Korean film history, The Outlaws will likely be remembered as the film that transformed a real 2000s gang crackdown into a lasting pop-culture myth. It doesn’t offer a nuanced sociological analysis, but it captures the emotional truth of living in a rapidly changing city: fear of the unknown, nostalgia for rough but familiar order, and the desire for a hero who can punch away the chaos, at least for two hours.

Questions Global Fans Ask About The Outlaws (And How Koreans Answer)

1. Is The Outlaws really based on a true story, or is that just marketing?

The Outlaws is genuinely inspired by a real case, but it’s not a documentary-style retelling. The core reference is the 2004 “Garibong-dong Heuksapa incident,” when Seoul police launched a major operation against a violent Chinese-Korean gang in the Garibong area. Korean news at the time showed images of machetes, bloody street fights, and joint raids by multiple police units. Many Koreans in their 30s and older remember these broadcasts clearly. The film borrows the basic setup: Chinese-Korean gang expansion, turf wars with local gangs, and a large-scale crackdown led by determined detectives. However, specific characters like Ma Seok-do and Jang Chen are fictionalized and dramatized. Their personalities, dialogues, and some extreme action scenes are designed for cinematic impact. So when Koreans say “based on a true story,” we mean the atmosphere, setting, and type of crime are rooted in reality, even though the narrative is compressed and stylized. For global viewers, it’s best to see The Outlaws as a crime film that uses real historical events as a foundation rather than a precise reconstruction.

2. Why do Koreans find Ma Dong-seok’s character in The Outlaws so iconic?

For Korean audiences, Ma Seok-do in The Outlaws is iconic because he combines three things rarely seen together in one character: physical dominance, emotional warmth, and everyday relatability. Ma Dong-seok doesn’t look like a typical slick movie star; he looks like the strong ajusshi you might see at a local gym or BBQ place. Koreans often describe him as “믿음직스럽다” – someone you can trust and rely on. In The Outlaws, his detective isn’t a tortured genius or a corrupt anti-hero. He’s straightforward, loyal to his team, and fiercely protective of his neighborhood. His way of speaking – casual Seoul dialect, lots of banter, light scolding – feels like a real middle-aged Korean man, not a scriptwriter’s fantasy. Add to that his real-life boxing background, and every punch in the film carries a sense of authenticity. After The Outlaws, Ma Seok-do became a sort of cultural shorthand: when Koreans say “We need a Ma Seok-do for this situation,” they mean a tough but decent person who will step up and handle chaos without overthinking.

3. How do Koreans feel about the portrayal of Chinese-Korean (Joseonjok) characters in The Outlaws?

Reactions inside Korea are mixed and somewhat complicated. On one hand, many viewers see The Outlaws as a specific crime story about a particular gang, not a statement about all Joseonjok or Chinese-Korean people. They point out that the film is clearly based on a real violent gang case, and that Korean gangsters in the movie are also shown as brutal, greedy, and pathetic. On the other hand, there is awareness that media portrayals have long contributed to stereotypes. For years, Korean news often highlighted violent crimes involving Joseonjok more than other groups, shaping a public image that is not representative of the majority. Some Koreans worry that The Outlaws, by making its main villain an ethnic Chinese-Korean with a memorable, terrifying presence, might unintentionally reinforce fear or prejudice among viewers who don’t personally know Joseonjok communities. In discussions on Korean forums, you’ll see comments like “It’s just a movie, but we should remember not all Joseonjok are like this.” So while the film is widely loved as entertainment, thoughtful Koreans are aware of the broader social context and potential impact of such portrayals.

4. Why do many Koreans say the first The Outlaws is better than its sequels?

When Koreans compare The Outlaws with its sequels (The Roundup series), they often praise the original for its realism and grounded scale. The first film is tightly focused on one neighborhood (Garibong), one main villain (Jang Chen), and a relatively contained police operation. The violence feels nasty and close to real CCTV footage; the humor comes naturally from workplace banter and personality clashes. In the sequels, the scale expands: overseas missions, multiple villains, more stylized action, and bigger set pieces. Many Koreans enjoy these sequels as fun blockbusters, but they feel a shift in tone. Ma Seok-do becomes almost superheroic, surviving increasingly unrealistic situations. By contrast, in The Outlaws, even though he’s super strong, the threats still feel like something that could plausibly happen in a Korean city. On Korean movie boards, comments like “1 was the most 범죄도시-like” or “Only 1 really felt like real crime city” are common. So when Koreans say the first is “better,” they usually mean it has the best balance of tension, realism, and character-driven storytelling.

5. What cultural details in The Outlaws do subtitles usually fail to convey?

Subtitles often struggle with three main cultural layers in The Outlaws: speech levels, slang, and workplace hierarchy. First, Korean has formal and informal speech. Ma Seok-do constantly uses banmal (informal speech) even with dangerous gangsters, which signals dominance. When he suddenly switches to more polite speech, it can indicate strategic politeness or sarcasm. English subtitles usually flatten this into one tone, losing the power dynamics. Second, the slang used by both cops and gangsters carries specific connotations. Words like “새끼” can be deeply insulting or almost friendly depending on context and tone. Subtitles typically translate it as “bastard” or omit it, missing the nuance of how Koreans read relationships through word choice. Third, the way junior detectives address seniors, and the casual yelling in the office, reflect Korea’s hierarchical but family-like workplace culture. To foreigners, it may look like constant aggression; to Koreans, it’s recognizable as rough camaraderie. Even small details like sharing late-night food, or a senior scolding but then quietly protecting a junior, carry emotional weight that’s hard to fully capture in brief subtitles.

6. How has The Outlaws influenced later Korean crime and action films?

Inside the Korean film industry, The Outlaws is often cited as a turning point that proved several things: mid-budget crime-action could still dominate the box office, a non-conventional leading man could anchor a franchise, and mixing brutal violence with broad humor could attract a wide demographic. After its success, you can see a noticeable increase in projects featuring tough, middle-aged male leads who are physically imposing but emotionally warm, echoing Ma Seok-do’s archetype. The film also reinforced the commercial viability of location-specific crime stories. More movies and dramas started to emphasize distinct neighborhoods, regional dialects, and realistic street settings, rather than generic urban backdrops. In terms of tone, The Outlaws helped normalize a style where a brutal fight scene can be followed by a laugh-out-loud dialogue exchange without feeling jarring. This tonal blend existed before, but The Outlaws showed it could work at a mainstream, franchise-launching level. Even outside the crime genre, Korean creators reference it as an example of how to balance character charm, local specificity, and commercial appeal in a way that connects with both domestic and, increasingly, global audiences.