Stretching Beyond the Script: Luffy, Latinx Masculinity, & the Power of Imagination

Poster for Netflix One Piece (2023- )

In the Hollywood machine, Latinx masculinity is too often boxed into rigid, reductive roles—hyper-aggressive, emotionally stunted, and forced to command respect through domination. These portrayals reinforce a hegemonic script where power is measured by violence and masculinity by control.

But what if masculinity looked different? What if it lived in joy, connection, softness—and stretched beyond the binaries of dominance and submission?

When Netflix announced its live-action adaptation of One Piece, the internet buzzed with skepticism. Western media has a well-documented habit of whitewashing and flattening richly layered anime worlds—so fans feared the same fate for Monkey D. Luffy, a character defined not by stoicism or brooding, but by laughter, heart, and childlike wonder. Would his joyful softness be erased to fit Hollywood’s template of masculinity?

Actor Iñaki Godoy & Eliichiro Oda's character, Luffy

The first glimmer of hope arrived with the casting of Iñaki Godoy, a Mexico-born actor. While Latinx people make up nearly 19% of the U.S. population, they remain shockingly underrepresented in Hollywood—holding only around 4% of lead roles in major films (USC Annenberg, 2023). Anime adaptations haven’t fared better; white leads still dominate. Yet One Piece creator Eiichiro Oda once said that if Luffy existed in the real world, he’d be Brazilian—a bold nod toward Latin America’s dynamic cultural landscape. Casting Godoy honors that spirit and pushes Latinx representation into new global dimensions.

Still, fans worried: would Luffy be reduced to a joke? Would his boundless energy and snack cravings during battle turn him into a buffoon—a role that, in media, often strips characters of depth and agency, especially those of color (Ramírez Berg, Latino Images in Film)?

Luffy Smiling as he dodges Captain Alvida’s attacks.jpg

But from the very first episode, Netflix’s Luffy refuses the scripts of fear, ridicule, and toxic masculinity. We meet him drifting in a barrel, landing in the middle of a skirmish aboard the ship of the fearsome Captain Alvida. There, Luffy meets Koby, a timid boy enslaved by Alvida’s brutal rule. She controls every aspect of Koby’s life—down to when he can eat or sleep. Koby quietly confesses he's scared he’ll never escape.

Luffy listens—and acts.

When Alvida demands, “What kind of monster are you?”  Luffy stands between her and Koby, declaring, with playful energy and a smile, “The stretchy kind,” before using his rubber-like “Gum Gum” powers to fight back. His body stretches, bends, bounces. But beneath the elasticity is conviction. He doesn’t flex to intimidate—he stretches to protect.

Luffy uses the ability from the Devil Fruit to fight

When Alvida raises her weapon to strike Koby, Luffy’s smile fades. He looks her in the eye and says, simply: “That’s enough.”

Luffy’s smile drops when Koby is endangered

This moment marks a pivotal reimagining of masculine heroism. Luffy doesn’t dominate; he liberates. He fights not for conquest but for care. His strength lives in his refusal to let fear win—and in the unapologetic joy he brings to every battle.

When Koby, shaped by trauma and distrust, questions Luffy’s desire to be Pirate King, Luffy responds without hesitation: "Cause it’s the best thing there is. You’ve got the wind at your back, the salty sea air, your loyal crew by your side… You never know what’s on the horizon. It’s all about being… free”

Luffy and Koby question the idea of good or bad parishes as the drift away

Luffy’s dream dismantles hegemonic masculinity and opens space for a queerer, more expansive mode of being—what José Esteban Muñoz might call “a horizon of possibility” (Muñoz, Cruising Utopia).

Frederick Luis Aldama argues that “Latinx pop culture doesn’t just reflect our lives—it shapes the very possibilities of how we see ourselves and each other" (Latinx Superheroes in Mainstream Comics). Extrapolating from Aldama's work on Latinx superheroes, we see how a charater like Luffy as nterpreted by Iñaki Godoy, interrupts dominant narratives, making room for “emotive, intellectually vibrant, and radically inclusive” identities. Godoy's Luffy refuses reduction, demanding multiplicity.

In mainstream media, particularly for Latinx characters, emotions are policed, vulnerability punished, and visibility granted only under conditions of legibility and threat. Latinx masculinity is allowed power when it's "dangerous" enough to entertain and "tameable" enough to sell (Priscilla Peña Ovalle, Dance and the Hollywood Latina).

Luffy doesn’t fit. And that’s the point.

Even his powers metaphorically reject confinement. After eating a Devil Fruit, Luffy gains the ability to stretch like rubber. Later, these powers evolve—he can literally reshape reality in surreal, cartoonish ways, turning the world into rubbery loops and physics-defying gags. His body becomes a site of imaginative resistance, echoing Gloria Anzaldúa’s call for “new myths, new images… that give us strength and empower us to act” (Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera).

Aldama writes about how Latinx creators and characters often “tropically bend and break conventional storytelling, challenging the very DNA of mainstream narrative forms” (Your Brain on Latino Comics). Luffy’s stretchy body, cartoon logic, and non-toxic worldview do precisely this—they rupture the inherited scripts of colonial and patriarchal storytelling.

Yes, Luffy jokes. He eats meat mid-fight. He wears his heart on his sleeve. But these aren’t signs of weakness—they’re revolutionary. His softness is strategic. His joy is justice.

Monkey D. Luffy reminds us that masculinity doesn’t have to harden us. It can stretch. It can dream. It can laugh, love, and liberate.