Perfect Blue as an imperfect illusion

How does your online identity coincide with your real one? It’s probably similar in some ways but also entirely different in others. Take your Peliplat user profile, for example. You write articles with a specific viewer base in mind, using a writing style designed to cater to your audience while maintaining an overarching sense of self. Your online presence is carefully curated to highlight the best parts of who you are and conceal the worst. But how much of your true, authentic self can you truly express without facing criticism or rejection? And when do you lose sight of which version of your authenticity is truthful?

This social dilemma lies at the heart of Satoshi Kon’s 1997 film Perfect Blue. The movie explores the psychological unravelling of Mima Kirigoe, a young pop idol transitioning into acting. Leaving behind her music career, Mima takes on a role in a psychological crime drama. As she dives deeper into this new, more mature role, the emotional and mental toll becomes overwhelming. She’s plagued by confusion, self-doubt, and the haunting presence of a stalker, and later, a fictitious version of herself who longs to return to her former life as a pop idol. The film diverges from the typical stylized aesthetics of anime.

In contrast to many anime films, the characters in Perfect Blue look like ordinary people, except for the idols, who represent an unattainable, idealized version of identity. This stark realism makes the horrors Mima faces feel much more personal. We empathize with her struggles because we see her doing everyday things: grocery shopping, feeding her fish, and using a computer in her cramped apartment, alongside her idol career. This intimacy fosters a deep connection, making her eventual descent into madness even more unsettling.

In the film’s early scenes, Mima is often bathed in light, with soft colour palettes. But as the narrative progresses, and chaos and violence begin to ensue, the visual tone shifts, mirroring Mima's psychological deterioration. This descent is not only psychological but also physical. The sexualization of Mima is another layer to her transformation; she’s coerced into expressing herself in ways that do not feel authentic but are instead filtered through the eyes of others. The film’s editing, with its disorienting cuts, transitions, and overlapping scenes, mirrors Mima’s unravelling mind, making it increasingly difficult for the audience to distinguish reality from fiction.

But Perfect Blue isn’t about solving a mystery, it’s about experiencing a story, examining the blurred lines between self-perception and reality, and how this can be a painfully relatable feeling to many viewers. The central danger in the film lies in Mima’s stalker, Me-mania, who is obsessed with her. He can’t accept that the real Mima doesn’t align with the idealized image of her he’s created in his mind. His belief is unsettlingly clear: Our avatars, our online personas, and our public images, only have power when others believe in them.

I was around 12 when I first learned about the infamous Björk stalker while casually browsing the internet. A man who had stalked the singer and ultimately attempted to murder her before killing himself so that they could be “together.” Fortunately, Björk survived the attack. The man left behind a disturbingly detailed video, which became public after his death. This incident, tragic and unsettling, introduced me to Perfect Blue, a film made months before this event, which eerily mirrored the situation. Such incidents are sadly not rare. The more we live our lives online, the more our personas become public, almost to the point where not exploiting one’s image feels like a social crime. The fear of being seen as an outcast, rejected for not being “authentically” present in the public sphere, looms large.

As someone fascinated by duality, it’s no surprise that Kon, in his meticulous detail, explores the concept of personal avatars in Perfect Blue. Our obsession with avatars, those versions of ourselves we curate for an online audience, has become a defining feature of modern existence. We juggle multiple social media accounts, each projecting a slightly different facet of our identity. But the person behind those avatars is rarely the same as the online version we present.

Just like my own profile here, what you read is a carefully drafted, rehearsed representation of myself, one that’s perfected and curated. But if this “perfected” version becomes the dominant force, what happens to the person I was before? Now, of course, a film blogging page is different from being thrown forefront in the public eye for millions to perceive. However, the objective remains the same.

It’s easy to become obsessed with the public images of celebrities and social media personalities. We hold them accountable for their actions, even though we have no real understanding of who they are behind the screen. We judge them based on our own beliefs, desires, and morality, projecting our narratives onto their lives. This projection is the central cautionary tale of Perfect Blue. It warns us about the dangers of defining ourselves, or others, through the lens of a persona, a role, or an avatar.

In today’s world, maintaining an illusion of an ulterior identity is almost a requirement. We live for the praise, the validation, and the sense of intrinsic value we get from external approval. To be in the public eye is to be perceived in a social context. It's natural and normal, but in essence, there is truly no reason to live your life for people who don't know you.