Almost thirty years later, scenes from Satoshi Kon’s 1997 film Perfect Blue circulate regularly on social media platforms like Twitter, Pinterest, and Instagram, generating thousands of likes from out-of-context images that only hint at the turmoil presented in the movie. The movie’s prominence in internet visual culture is a testament to Kon’s directorial expertise and precise vision as even the oblivious user can detect the images’ haunting quality, whether it be a scene of explicit distress or vivid, dreamlike glamor. But for those that have seen the movie, context only amplifies the images’ eeriness; layered with intricate external and internal conflict, Perfect Blue is a prime example of a well-executed thriller.

The movie contains typical psychological elements like a distressing storyline, a stalker-serial killer, and an unstable protagonist. Kon doesn’t shy away from graphic violence or disturbing scenes, sometimes at the expense of viewer comfort, but they are not without reason. Balancing exposition and suspense, off-putting interactions escalate incrementally as Mima realizes the danger she is in. The violence in Perfect Blue is intermittent and hard-earned, the devastating payoff to an web of tension and unease established prior. 

From the beginning, Kon establishes the dark undertone of what would otherwise be an innocuous opening scene of a small concert. The movie takes the stalker’s point-of-view as he watches three girls sing and dance, and in an unsettling motion, takes his hand out as if holding a small, dancing Mima. Kon allows the audience to play God in moments like these, divulging just enough information to generate suspense and concern but leaves much unknown, allowing viewers to spiral along with Mima. 

In the movie, Mima undergoes a difficult career change from a singer to an actress. The two jobs demand drastically different personas. As an idol, she is expected to embody an innocent persona; she downplays her maturity in favor of childlike energy and frivolity as she sings and dances in pastel ribbons and frilly dresses. As an actress, Mima works under a more serious environment, and is expected to embody a mature image, even to the point of overt sexualization. Desperate to prove herself, Mima agrees to other uncomfortable projects— agreeing to a nude photoshoot, acting in scenes that depict sexual assault—not only at her own expense, but to an agitated stalker’s as well. 

The things we know amplify our distress— the audience gets a clear premonition of the danger Mima is in long before she does— while the things we don’t make us both empathize and suspect our protagonist. Through all of this, Mima becomes increasingly aware of the dissatisfied fan, and under her turmoil, begins to conflate the different aspects of herself— as a girl, an actress, an idol, her character, etc. Kon makes the most out of an unreliable narrator as he leads and misleads, tossing red herrings and conflating reality, imagination, delusions and perspectives through iconic imagery and motifs that resonate with viewers years later. 

The imagery in Perfect Blue, beyond being notable and vibrant, takes from long-standing literary tradition. Showing his expertise in storytelling, Kon uses the Gothic double, a literary motif originating in the late 18th century, to portray Mima’s fractured consciousness, personifying her doubts through a doppelgänger that becomes more tangible as she loses grip on reality. Beginning with reflections that taunt to a ghostly figure that hops and evades, Kon takes advantage of animation as a medium for fantastic and memorable renderings of conflict. Kon’s use of the double becomes more impressive when he blends Mima’s personified insecurities with her external troubles as the real and imaginary conflate in the climax. 

This conflation is effective as the plot reveals Mima’s self-doubt, identity crises and career anxieties and its exacerbation from someone’s projected delusion. Mima’s stalker, dissatisfied with her career change, becomes increasingly agitated the more they find out about her. From collecting magazines to keeping up with fansites, the stalker feeds their own delusions of what they think is best for Mima, a girl they’ve never spoken to. 

With the advent of streamers and influencers, the term “parasocial relationship” is a familiar one, but it wasn’t in 1997. Kon’s mediation on conflation of the avatar and the individual reveals his keen foresight into a future with alarming possibilities. He explores questions of the separation of the avatar and the individual during the digital age; rather than accepting the internet as the culmination of human connection, Kon questions the authenticity and limits of such connection. The internet grants access to many things, including people, which is sometimes for the worse. The endless stream of images, words, and content about anything or anyone is a recipe for obsession. At this point, entitled fans harassing public figures is old news, a phenomenon Kon predicted before most people even thought about using the internet with caution. 

Beyond the classic thriller plotline and Kon’s clairvoyance, Mima’s story is first and foremost a modern one. Like other turn-of-the-century films, Perfect Blue depicts modernity’s greatest contradiction: despite being surrounded by people, we are lonelier than ever. After work, Mima joins the rest of the city in a lonely commute home among an indiscernible crowd of equally lonely people. She gets enough groceries for one and retreats to a small apartment where she lives alone. Mima has no friends outside of her coworkers and only calls her mother on occasion. Mima’s isolation and lack of community becomes the perfect backdrop for the identity crises and ego-loss that ensues. 

While the stalker-serial killer is the catalyst for the film, the sociocultural context of late capitalism and the isolation of the average worker is the backdrop. Mima complies with executive decisions at her own expense, and the lack of agency in her own life is cause for her dissociation. Kon uses transportation as a motif for Mima’s passivity in her life. Throughout the movie, she is always the passenger—whether it is the backseat of a car or on a train, she remains passive, staring out the window as her reflection stares back. It is only until the end that she gets in the driver seat, an affirming ending to a tumultuous sequence of events.

Surpassing the classic violent thriller, Kon’s Perfect Blue works because of his sharp insight on modernity, specifically the fragility of the ego in isolation and the consequences of an accessible persona. Kon’s foresight into the upcoming digital age, specifically our relationship with avatars and icons makes this turn-of-the-century thriller even more chilling and relevant. Presented with vivid glamour, the movie has enough unsettling scenes to please any slasher fan, all while delivering a concise screenplay built on fleshed-out internal and external conflict.