Why Perfect Blue Still Feels Uncomfortable Even Today
Rushabh Bhosale
Perfect Blue remains deeply unsettling because it explores psychological horror rooted in identity dissolution, parasocial relationships, and the loss of self-perception—themes that have only grown more relevant with social media and modern celebrity culture. Unlike supernatural horror that offers emotional distance, Satoshi Kon's 1997 masterpiece forces viewers to confront how fragile human identity actually is when subjected to public scrutiny, obsession, and the blurring line between persona and person.
There's a scene in Perfect Blue where Mima stares at her reflection, uncertain which version is real. The idol. The actress. The person she was before fame. The persona created by fans. The character she plays on television.
None of them feel like her anymore.
That moment doesn't leave you after the credits roll. It follows you into your own bathroom mirror, your social media profile, every photograph where you've performed a version of yourself for someone else's consumption. That's why Perfect Blue feels different from other psychological horror anime. It doesn't scare you with monsters or supernatural forces. It scares you with yourself.
The Horror Without Safety Nets
Why Perfect Blue's Terror Feels Possible
Most horror provides escape through impossibility. Demons don't actually possess people. Ghosts aren't really haunting your apartment. Serial killers with supernatural abilities don't exist outside fiction. These narrative boundaries let audiences experience fear safely, knowing the credits will restore reality's rules.
Perfect Blue offers no such comfort.
Everything that happens to Mima Kirigoe could happen. Obsessive fans exist. Stalkers create fake websites impersonating their targets. People lose themselves trying to meet public expectations. Careers demand compromises that chip away at identity. The pressure to maintain different versions of yourself across different spaces—the sweet idol, the serious actress, the private person—can genuinely fragment someone's sense of self.
This realism is what makes the film linger. Satoshi Kon understood that the most terrifying horror comes from recognizing something true about human psychology, not from inventing new fears. When Mima can't distinguish between her acting roles, her memories, and actual events, she's experiencing something fundamentally possible. Dissociative identity disorder exists. Derealization exists. The psychological breakdown from sustained trauma and stress exists.
The film never winks at the audience. It never confirms which scenes are real and which are delusions. That ambiguity isn't artistic pretension—it's intentional psychological warfare designed to make you feel what Mima feels: the creeping horror of not trusting your own perception.
When Identity Becomes Performance
The Idol Persona vs. The Actress vs. The Person
Mima's transition from pop idol to actress serves as the narrative catalyst, but the deeper horror lies in what that transition reveals about identity construction. As a member of CHAM!, she performed a specific persona: innocent, cheerful, approachable. That persona wasn't entirely manufactured—presumably parts of it reflected genuine aspects of her personality—but it also wasn't the complete picture of who she was as a person.
When she pursues acting, she's pressured into increasingly mature roles, including a graphic rape scene that her former manager can't even watch. The film doesn't present this transition as simply "breaking free" from her idol image. Instead, it shows how both roles—the idol and the serious actress—become prisons that trap different versions of her, neither allowing her to exist as a complete person.
Her stalker, Me-Mania, represents the extreme manifestation of parasocial relationships. He doesn't love Mima the person. He loves Mima the idol—the constructed image he believes belongs to him. When she deviates from that image, he experiences it as betrayal. She's tarnished herself by being something other than what he needed her to be.
How Parasocial Obsession Became Prophecy
This dynamic feels horrifyingly familiar in modern celebrity culture. Fans frequently express ownership over public figures, demanding they remain frozen in whatever version initially attracted their attention. Child stars who try to shed innocent images face backlash. Musicians who change genres get accused of betrayal. Streamers and content creators who reveal personality traits inconsistent with their online personas receive death threats.
Perfect Blue predicted how parasocial relationships would intensify when the boundary between public and private selves collapsed—something the internet has accelerated beyond what anyone in 1997 could have imagined.
The Website That Knows Everything
When Fiction Became Social Media Reality
The most prophetic element of Perfect Blue is "Mima's Room," a website created by her stalker that chronicles her daily activities in intimate detail, written from her perspective. In 1997, when the internet was still nascent and social media didn't exist, this felt like pure horror fiction.
In 2026, it's Tuesday.
Celebrities now maintain exactly this kind of intimate documentation themselves, sharing what they ate for breakfast, their workout routines, their emotional states, their daily schedules. Fans create elaborate websites tracking their favorite public figures' activities. The boundary between what's private and what's performed has dissolved almost completely.
The horror in "Mima's Room" wasn't just the stalker's obsession—it was how the fake Mima felt more real than the actual person. The website version of Mima was consistent, always available, perfectly aligned with what fans wanted her to be. The real Mima was confused, inconsistent, changing, human. Which version deserves to exist?
The Performance That Never Ends
This question haunts anyone who maintains a public presence online. The curated version of yourself that gets likes and engagement starts feeling more legitimate than your messy, contradictory reality. You begin performing even in private, rehearsing which version of an experience will photograph well before you've finished living it.
Mima's breakdown mirrors what happens when the performance becomes inescapable. She can't tell which thoughts are hers and which belong to the characters she plays. She can't distinguish between events she experienced and scenes she filmed. Her sense of continuous identity—the feeling that you're the same person across time and context—shatters under the weight of maintaining too many competing versions of herself.
Silence, Confusion, and the Absence of Answers
How Disorientation Becomes the Point
Perfect Blue refuses to comfort its audience with explanations. The film's narrative structure deliberately disorients viewers, cutting between Mima's perspective, her television show Double Bind, her hallucinations of her idol self, and actual events without clear transitions. Scenes that initially appear real later reveal themselves as performances. Confrontations that seem like hallucinations turn out to have happened.
This confusion is the point.
Most psychological anime eventually provide clarity. Even Monster anime, despite exploring the darkest aspects of human evil and manipulation, maintains a coherent narrative structure where viewers can distinguish between reality and character psychology. Death Note plays with supernatural power and psychological manipulation, but the rules of its universe remain consistent.
Perfect Blue offers no such stability.
Satoshi Kon's Visual Language of Fractured Reality
The film's visual language actively works against comprehension. Mirrors reflect wrong images. Transitions between scenes obscure whether time has passed or whether we've entered fantasy. The repeated motif of eyes watching—from television screens, from crowds, from Mima's own fractured self-image—creates paranoia that infects the viewing experience itself.
Satoshi Kon's directorial approach treats identity as inherently unstable. The smooth cuts between Mima the idol performing on stage and Mima the actress performing on set and Mima the person performing privacy suggest these aren't distinct states but overlapping realities constantly bleeding into each other.
This aesthetic choice has profound psychological implications. By denying viewers stable ground, Kon forces us to experience something approximating dissociative experience. We can't orient ourselves because Mima can't orient herself. The discomfort we feel while watching mirrors the discomfort of existing in a state of perpetual uncertainty about which self is real.
Why It Ages Better Than Other Psychological Horror
The Film That Predicted Our Future
Twenty-nine years after its release, Perfect Blue has only grown more relevant. Many anime from the late '90s feel dated despite their quality. Perfect Blue feels like it was made yesterday—or perhaps tomorrow, as society continues catching up to what Kon predicted.
The film anticipated several trends that would dominate culture decades later: the rise of social media and its impact on identity construction, the intensification of celebrity culture and parasocial relationships, the exploitation built into entertainment industries, the commodification of female performers specifically, and the psychological toll of maintaining different public and private selves.
Unlike Welcome to the NHK, which explores social anxiety and isolation in ways that feel increasingly relevant with modern technology, Perfect Blue identified something even more fundamental: that the self might not survive sustained public scrutiny.
Cultural Influence Beyond Anime
Films like Black Swan (2010) openly borrowed from Perfect Blue's visual language and thematic concerns. Director Darren Aronofsky purchased the remake rights to reference specific shots. The influence extends beyond direct homage—Perfect Blue established a template for exploring how performance identity corrodes personal identity, a theme that resonates across multiple art forms as celebrity culture becomes increasingly democratized.
Anyone with a smartphone camera now has the tools to become a public figure. Anyone can cultivate audiences who form parasocial attachments. Anyone can experience the fragmentation that comes from performing different versions of yourself across platforms. Perfect Blue stopped being a story about one woman's breakdown and became a warning about modern existence.
The film also predicted how female performers specifically face this pressure. Mima isn't just asked to change—she's asked to sexualize herself, to be degraded on camera, to compromise boundaries as "part of the job." The film's critique of how entertainment industries exploit women pretending it's empowerment has aged disturbingly well.
The Intentional Discomfort of Ambiguity
Why Understanding Would Ruin the Horror
What makes Perfect Blue exceptional within psychological horror anime isn't just that it disturbs viewers—it's that the disturbance serves a purpose. The ambiguity isn't Kon being pretentious. It's Kon ensuring viewers can't distance themselves from Mima's experience through comprehension.
Compare this to Chainsaw Man, which creates emotional discomfort and emptiness on purpose to reflect its protagonist's dehumanization. Both series use discomfort as narrative tool rather than flaw, but Perfect Blue's approach cuts deeper because it denies the possibility of understanding what happened.
The Final Scene's Unsettling Question
The film's final scene suggests Mima has recovered, having reclaimed her identity and put the trauma behind her. She looks at her reflection and smiles, declaring, "I'm the real thing."
But is she? Or is this just another performance, another version of herself she's constructed to survive? The audience can't know because Mima herself might not know. Identity isn't something you reclaim like lost keys—it's something you continuously construct, and the construction becomes exponentially more difficult when thousands of people have competing claims on who you should be.
This uncertainty is what follows viewers after the credits. We don't get closure because Mima doesn't get closure. We don't get answers because the questions Perfect Blue asks don't have clean answers. Can you maintain authentic selfhood while performing for public consumption? Where does performance end and person begin? If the performed version feels more real to everyone else, does your private self even matter?
Living Inside the Horror
Why the Discomfort Follows You Home
The discomfort Perfect Blue creates isn't limited to its runtime. The film plants seeds of paranoia that bloom whenever you think about how you present yourself to the world.
Every social media post becomes a small act of identity construction. Every photograph involves choosing which version of yourself to project. Every public interaction requires calculating how you'll be perceived. The pressure to maintain coherent personal brands means performing consistency even when you feel fractured.
The horror is that this is normal now. We've all become Mima to varying degrees, fragmenting ourselves across platforms, trying to satisfy competing visions of who we should be, occasionally catching our reflection and wondering which version is real.
Perfect Blue doesn't offer solutions because there might not be solutions. In a world where privacy is increasingly impossible and public performance increasingly mandatory, the psychological cost of existing under constant observation might just be the price of participation.
The film ends, but the discomfort continues. That's what makes it psychological horror rather than just psychological thriller. Horror operates through lingering unease, through fears that follow you home and reshape how you see the world. Perfect Blue succeeds because it makes you afraid of something you can't escape: the possibility that your identity is more fragile than you thought, and that the version of yourself you present to others might eventually consume whoever you used to be.
Mima's story could be anyone's story. That's what makes it so uncomfortable to watch. That's what makes it impossible to forget.
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Bakugo's Rivalry with Deku Is About Identity, Not Competition
Bakugo and Deku's rivalry in My Hero Academia isn't about who's stronger—it's about who they are when strength stops defining them. Bakugo's entire identity was built on being superior to everyone, especially Quirkless Deku. When Deku gains One For All and starts surpassing him, Bakugo doesn't just face defeat in competition—he faces the collapse of his entire sense of self. The rivalry explores what happens when your worth is tied to being the best, when the person you looked down on becomes your equal, and when you're forced to rebuild who you are from scratch. Unlike typical shonen rivalries driven by power scaling, Bakugo and Deku's relationship asks: if you're not the strongest, who are you? Bakugo didn’t lose to Deku. He lost the story he told himself about who he was. Streaming on Crunchyroll and Funimation. The Rivalry That Doesn't Follow the Rules Most shonen rivalries follow a template: two powerful characters push each other to greater heights through competition. Goku and Vegeta. Naruto and Sasuke. The formula works because both rivals start roughly equal. Bakugo and Deku break this completely. Their rivalry begins when one has everything and the other has nothing—built on the assumption that gap will never close. The Childhood That Set Everything Bakugo gained an inflated ego from being praised excessively for his powerful Explosion Quirk, leading him to bully Quirkless Izuku Midoriya. But the bullying wasn't just cruelty. It was self-defense. When they were children, Deku tried to help Bakugo after he fell into a river. Bakugo was offended that a weakling like Deku tried to save him and assumed he was looking down on him. This moment reveals everything. Bakugo's entire identity rested on being superior. A Quirkless kid offering help shattered that hierarchy—so Bakugo rebuilt the wall with violence and contempt. The nickname "Deku" (meaning useless) wasn't just an insult. It was Bakugo's attempt to permanently define someone who threatened his sense of self. When Your Identity Is Built on Being Better Katsuki started out believing his worth was tied to how strong he was. In My Hero Academia's society, Quirks determine value. Heroes are celebrities. Power equals worth. Bakugo absorbed this completely—his Explosion Quirk made him special, and being special became his entire personality. The Problem With Conditional Self-Worth When your identity depends on external validation—being the strongest, smartest, most talented—you're building on sand. Any threat to that superiority threatens your entire existence. Deku represented the ultimate threat: proof that Bakugo's superiority wasn't inherent. If a Quirkless nobody could become his equal, then Bakugo was never special—he just got lucky with genetics. This connects to how comparing yourself to others destroys you in The Pet Girl of Sakurasou—when your worth depends on being better than someone else, you're always one comparison away from collapse. The Identity Crisis Disguised as Competition In Episode 8, Deku defeated Bakugo in a practice exercise. But Bakugo lost not because of his power but because of his arrogance and inability to work as a team. This wasn't just a loss in training. It was existential annihilation. Bakugo's entire worldview rested on a hierarchy where he stood at the top and Deku at the bottom. When Deku wins—not through luck but through qualities Bakugo dismissed as weakness (teamwork, strategy, empathy)—the entire structure collapses. What Bakugo Actually Lost He didn't lose a fight. He lost the story he'd been telling himself about who he was. After he loses to Deku, feels he can't measure up to Todoroki, gets kidnapped, and fails his Licensing Exam, he suffers a massive identity crisis that knocks down his fragile confidence. Each defeat chips away at the foundation. If strength doesn't guarantee victory, what does it guarantee? If being talented doesn't make you special, what does? Similar to how Haikyuu explores effort without a promise of greatness, Bakugo discovers that natural talent without growth is a dead end. Why Bakugo Can't Just "Get Stronger" In a typical shonen rivalry, the solution to falling behind is training harder. Get a new technique. Unlock a transformation. Close the gap through effort. Bakugo does train harder. He does get stronger. It doesn't fix anything. The Problem Isn't Power—It's Perspective If he isn't the strongest and he isn't meant to achieve immediate greatness, then what is his role? It's something that Quirkless Midoriya had to evaluate for many years as a child. What is his purpose in a world that seems destined to leave him behind? Bakugo is forced to ask the same question Deku asked his entire childhood: who am I if I'm not what I thought I was? For Deku, that question led to discovering identity beyond Quirks—heroism as action, not status. For Bakugo, it requires dismantling everything he built his personality on. What Deku Has That Bakugo Doesn't The series explicitly contrasts their approaches to All Might, their shared idol. While Deku admired All Might's ability to save lives with a smile, Bakugo admired his strength and ability to defeat anyone. This difference is everything. Two Different Definitions of Heroism Deku sees heroism as connection—reaching people, protecting them, making them feel safe. Bakugo sees heroism as dominance—being strong enough that threats don't matter, proving yourself through victory. Neither is wrong, but only one is complete. Endeavor has a powerful quirk and is skilled at rescuing civilians, but the reason why he's unable to surpass All Might is because he fundamentally does not care about the people he's saving. Bakugo mirrors Endeavor—technically excellent, strategically brilliant, but missing the emotional core that makes All Might irreplaceable. The rivalry with Deku forces Bakugo to develop what he lacks: empathy, collaboration, the ability to see strength in vulnerability. The Fight That Changes Everything Their second major fight—where Bakugo finally admits his feelings—is when the rivalry transforms completely. Bakugo breaks down. He admits he feels responsible for All Might's retirement. He admits he doesn't understand how Deku got his Quirk. He admits he feels left behind. Vulnerability as Strength For someone whose entire identity was built on never showing weakness, this moment is death and rebirth. Bakugo's ceaseless drive forces Midoriya to become more assertive, and he eventually welcomes the rivalry. Meanwhile, Midoriya's attitude forces Bakugo into a previously unforeseen habit of contemplation. They're not just making each other stronger. They're making each other more complete. Deku learns confidence and assertiveness from Bakugo's refusal to back down. Bakugo learns empathy and teamwork from Deku's instinctive heroism. This parallels how Kids on the Slope shows that relationships force us to grow in unexpected ways—growth doesn't require perfection, just willingness to change. The Ending: Choosing to Redefine Yourself By the series' conclusion, Bakugo's transformation is complete—not because he's the strongest, but because he's rebuilt his identity on different foundations. Bakugo has been a proponent in crafting technology that allows Midoriya to potentially take a physically active role in superheroism again, meaning that the boy who once insulted a character without "powers" has now evolved into a man who wishes to find a way to bring those abilities back. From Contempt to Support The Bakugo who bullied Quirkless Deku now dedicates himself to helping Quirkless Deku become a hero again. Not because he pities him. Because he respects him. His identity is no longer built on being superior to Deku. It's built on being Deku's equal—someone who pushes him forward not through competition but through collaboration. The rivalry doesn't end. It evolves into partnership. Similar to how Bakuman shows the hidden costs of creative ambition, Bakugo discovers that identity built on relationships is stronger than identity built on dominance. What the Rivalry Actually Teaches Bakugo and Deku's relationship isn't about friendship conquering all or rivals becoming brothers. It's about what happens when the person you built your entire identity around surpasses you—and you're forced to decide who you are without that hierarchy. The Uncomfortable Truth About Conditional Identity Most people build identity on external markers: job titles, achievements, being better than peers. When those markers shift—when you get fired, when someone younger surpasses you, when your talent stops being enough—you face the same crisis Bakugo does. Who are you when the thing that made you special becomes common? When your worth can't be measured by comparison? The series doesn't offer easy answers. Bakugo's growth takes the entire series. He relapses into old patterns. He struggles with anger management. But he rebuilds anyway—slowly, imperfectly, honestly. This connects to why Eren started the Rumbling beyond just protecting Paradis—real growth is messy, incomplete, and driven by complex motivations beyond simple heroism. The Rivalry That Saved Both of Them Both young heroes look at the world's number 1 hero for inspiration. While their end goals were the same, the two determined they needed different things to get to their goals. However, as the story progresses both begin to realize that they each lack what the other has. Deku needed Bakugo's confidence, his refusal to accept limits, his aggressive drive to win. Bakugo needed Deku's empathy, his collaborative spirit, his instinct to save rather than defeat. Neither could become a complete hero alone. The rivalry forced them both to develop what they lacked—not through competition, but through recognition. By the end, they're not trying to surpass each other. They're trying to become worthy of standing beside each other. That's not a rivalry about competition. That's a rivalry about identity—and it's exactly why it works.