Love On Trial Review: The Price of Purity in a Pop Machine

Koji Fukada’s “Love On Trial” ushers audiences into the meticulously constructed universe of J-pop, where the effervescence of manufactured joy meets the unyielding mechanics of corporate interest. The film pivots around Mai, a member of the aspiring idol group Happy Fanfare, whose trajectory is violently rerouted by an entirely human impulse: she falls in love.

This simple act of affection becomes a transgression, a direct violation of the ‘no love’ clause embedded in her contract – a stipulation designed to preserve the idol’s marketability. Consequently, Mai finds herself not on a stage receiving adoration, but in a courtroom, her personal life subjected to legal scrutiny. The narrative immediately establishes a stark dichotomy: the individual’s quest for personal fulfillment set against the rigid, commodifying demands of an industry built on the fantasy of attainable idols.

The J-pop world, as rendered in the film, is a high-pressure crucible. Idols like Mai are caught in a relentless cycle of rehearsals, performances, and fan interactions, including meet-and-greets and ceaseless livestreaming. Every smile, every gesture is currency in an economy of perceived purity and unwavering devotion. Central to this economy are the infamous “no relationship” clauses, mechanisms that ensure the female idols remain ostensibly available, feeding a predominantly male fanbase’s (otaku) carefully cultivated fantasy.

Talent agencies, cloaking their control in the language of protection and guidance, wield these clauses with an iron fist, for the idol’s unblemished image is directly tethered to profit. This system thrives on an intense, almost devotional fan loyalty, a fervour that the industry itself meticulously cultivates and manages, revealing a gendered expectation where young women bear the primary burden of this performative chastity.

A Dissonant Heart in the Idol Machine

Mai’s journey is one of quiet unraveling. Even before her fateful encounter with Kei, a subtle weariness with the relentless artifice of her idol existence is palpable. She moves through the saccharine routines with a gravity that sets her apart, a burgeoning disillusionment that the film captures with understated precision.

Her internal landscape becomes a battleground when Kei, a street mime and magician, enters her life. He exists in a sphere utterly removed from Mai’s regulated world; living out of a van, his art is his own, untethered to corporate diktats or the demanding gaze of a fanbase. He represents an organic, unmediated form of existence, a stark contrast to Mai’s hyper-managed reality.

Their connection, born from a chance reunion of former schoolmates, blossoms in stolen moments and furtive text messages exchanged across streets, a poignant image of affection constrained by surveillance. Through their developing bond, the film questions what it means to connect authentically in a world that demands constant performance.

Other members of Happy Fanfare, like the seemingly effervescent Nanako, serve as parallel studies in pressure. Nanako’s own brush with scandal following a rumored online association with a YouTuber, and the swift, brutal fan backlash and public shaming that ensues, underscores the precariousness of their position.

These supporting arcs, while not deeply plumbed, effectively sketch the pervasive anxieties and the narrow confines within which these young women operate, their individuality often subsumed by the collective demands of the group and the agency’s tight rein. The agency’s management figures appear as dispassionate enforcers, their interactions with the idols underscoring a view of these young women as assets first, individuals second.

When Illusions Fracture, the Courtroom Awaits

The narrative gains a sharper edge as the consequences of deviation from the prescribed path become manifest. Nanako’s public humiliation, forced upon her after fans decry her perceived “betrayal,” serves as a chilling prelude to Mai’s own ordeal. The film does not shy from depicting the unsettling possessiveness of some fans, hinting at the psychological toll and even physical dangers lurking beneath the surface of idol worship.

A cutting remark from one band member – that a threat to their lives became their first taste of significant television exposure – lays bare the often perverse logic of the entertainment machine. It is against this backdrop that Mai’s decision to choose Kei, and therefore defy her contract, gains its weight, transforming her personal choice into an act of rebellion that propels her into a legal battle.

This pivot towards courtroom drama in the film’s latter stages allows for a more direct interrogation of the film’s central preoccupations. The legal proceedings become a stage for dissecting the troubling misogyny embedded in an industry where such restrictive clauses are predominantly imposed on female performers. The film probes the conflict between a corporation’s contractual power and what might be considered fundamental human rights – the right to love, to a private life.

It scrutinizes the phenomenon of fan culture, where devotion can curdle into a sense of ownership, and it questions the ethical standing of contracts that seek to legislate affection. The central question evolves: is Mai merely a contractual delinquent, or is the contract itself an instrument of an inherently problematic system?

Austere Visions and Unresolved Resonances

Visually, “Love On Trial” adopts a language of restraint. Hidetoshi Shinomiya’s cinematography often employs muted palettes and deliberate framing, creating a sense of distance or clinical observation. Wide angles can emphasize the performers’ isolation even amidst a crowd, while frontal shots, particularly in the courtroom scenes, seem to implicate the viewer directly.

There is a discernible visual demarcation between the artificially bright, almost sterile environments of J-pop performances or the girls’ shared living spaces, and the somber, unadorned reality of courtrooms and quiet streets. This aesthetic austerity aligns with Koji Fukada’s directorial signature, favoring a quiet, observational tone and a pacing that allows tension to accumulate subtly rather than through overt melodrama. The film builds its case with methodical patience, its emotional impact deriving from the steady accretion of detail.

Kyoko Saito’s portrayal of Mai is imbued with a quiet intensity and a compelling believability, perhaps informed by her own experiences as a former J-pop idol. She conveys Mai’s internal struggle and growing resolve with minimal affectation, her stoicism in the courtroom speaking volumes. Yuki Kura, as Kei, provides a gentle counterpoint, their shared scenes marked by a tentative, natural chemistry.

A fleeting, almost whimsical moment of magical realism involving one of Kei’s street performances—a brief, unexplained levitation—stands as a curious stylistic flourish, a brief departure from the film’s overarching naturalism, perhaps hinting at a yearning for transcendence amidst the mundane and the oppressive. The film ultimately leaves one to ponder the true cost of dreams packaged and sold as commodities, and whether the structures that profit from such dreams can ever truly accommodate the unscripted complexities of a human heart. It presents a world where the pursuit of love becomes a radical act, its value fiercely contested.

Love on Trial premiered at the 2025 Cannes Film Festival in the Cannes Première section.

Full Credits

Director: Kôji Fukada

Writers: Kôji Fukada, Shintaro Mitani

Producers: Yoko Abe, Shin Yamaguchi, Atsuko Ôno

Cast: Kyoko Saito, Yuki Kura, Kenjiro Tsuda, Erika Karata

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Hidetoshi Shinomiya

Editor: Sylvie Lager