‘Love on Trial’ Review: Koji Fukada Mounts a Low-Impact Defense of a J-Pop Fallen Idol

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Although set in the glamorous, artificial world of Japanese girlbands, director Koji Fukada’s “Love on Trial” carries an unexpected dullness. This slow-paced exploration of the cost of fame lacks the intrigue one might expect from its complex scenarios. Instead of offering insightful critique on today’s disposable celebrity culture, Fukada’s indirect narrative feels like a repetitive introduction to a song that never develops into a memorable chorus – all build-up, no payoff.

The five-member group known as Happyfanfare has been in the industry for four years and have made a name for themselves in the middle tier. They aspire to move up to the top echelon. In the opening scenes of “Love on Trial”, the glamorous and artificial atmosphere is swiftly debunked, revealing the band being hurried onto a modest stage to execute their synchronized dance routine for an audience predominantly male adults. This event serves multiple purposes: it’s part concert, part fan gathering, part dating scene, and entirely a publicity stunt.

Following the event, the girls interact with their fans for some personal interaction, allowing them to spend quality time with their beloved band member. Their management team, led by Saya (Karata Erika), a former idol and her aloof, ever-sunglasses-wearing superior (Kenjiro Tsuda), keep track of the girls’ popularity not just collectively but also individually. They create competition among the group members, using the promise of greater exposure as an incentive. Since they are five, someone is always in the middle of the spotlight.

Currently, the spotlight is on Mai (Kyoko Saito), leveraging her experience as a J-pop girlband Hinatazaka46 member. However, Nanaka (Yuna Nakamura) is catching up, as indicated by an ardent fan who purchased 50 copies of their latest single to secure a prime position in line. With her rising fame, she’s been given the lead on their upcoming track, which resembles their previous one. This was followed by leaked footage of Nanaka with her boyfriend, a popular livestream gamer. Interestingly, despite their sexually charged image, these youth-culture icons are forbidden from dating to uphold their wholesome and pure image, contributing to their allure as coquettish yet infantilized fantasies. Breaching this fantasy can be hazardous, as demonstrated when Nanaka’s devoted fan became enraged at their next event, resorting to smoke bombs and a knife.

In the film “Drive my Car,” cinematographer Hidetoshi Shinomiya and editor Sylvie Lager handle the stalker incident much like they do the rest of the movie, with a subtle approach that borders on being understated. The attack serves primarily as a catalyst to push Mai towards her secret love interest. One evening, she encounters Kei, an old classmate who captivates her with his street magic and mime act. Despite their strong feelings for each other, which are hinted at by some surreal scenes, they maintain a platonic relationship. However, the night of the attack breaks this pattern when Kei arrives in his van to help Mai, prompting her to make a sudden decision: she abandons her fans, bandmates, and management, choosing love instead.

At around the midway mark, we’re given an opportunity to delve into a classic romantic narrative. However, Fukada, along with Shintaro Mitani, decide to leap eight months ahead instead, where Mai (alongside Kei, surprisingly) are being sued by their management for violating the stringent morality clause in the Happyfanfare contract. The remainder of the film primarily takes place within cold, windowless courtrooms as the questionable ethical nature of the agreement is scrutinized, and the stress of the trial begins to put a strain on the young couple’s bond.

Before Mai ever crossed paths with Kei, she was uncertain about living as an idol, making her sudden departure less surprising. What’s more concerning, though, is that Fukada primarily highlights the sexism in one specific aspect of the girlband industry, seemingly overlooking the broader systemic issues within celebrity creation and consumption. While “Vox Lux” by Brady Corbet and “Smile 2” by Parker Finn both critiqued toxic fandom and pop world hypocrisies respectively, Fukada’s work seems to lack sufficient perspective to fully appreciate or condemn the peculiarities and cruelty of J-pop. Instead, it appears that Fukada can only criticize this one facet of the phenomenon, offering a minimal challenge to the cycle of exploitation. Unfortunately, for every girl who manages to break free or is discarded from the system, there are dozens more eager young women ready to take their place – beaming, flirting, waving with both hands.

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2025-05-28 22:16