Love on trial

Love on Trial is one of those films whose synopsis seems almost like fiction when you first hear about it, but which, the more you delve into it, the more unsettling it becomes—precisely because it is rooted in reality. With this new feature film, director Koji Fukada once again explores the fragile balance between personal identity and social pressure, but instead of focusing on the family unit as he often does, he turns his attention to the Japanese idol industry, a world built on illusion, discipline, and control. Inspired by real-life court cases in which pop idols were prosecuted for violating the no-dating clauses in their contracts, the film follows Mai, played by Kyoko Saito, a member of the girl group Happy Fanfare, whose life begins to unravel the moment she allows herself something as ordinary as falling in love. What makes the film immediately intriguing is the way it refuses to sensationalize its subject. Rather than presenting the idol system as pure exploitation from the outset, Koji Fukada slowly unveils its mechanisms, allowing the audience to observe how the fantasy of purity is constructed, marketed, and defended with an almost unsettling normality.

The first half of the film immerses us in the group’s daily life, and it is here that the project’s authenticity becomes particularly striking. Rehearsals, meet-and-greets with fans, livestream sessions, and carefully choreographed performances feel painfully real, not only thanks to the precision of the artistic design, but also because Kyoko Saito herself comes from this world, having been a member of the idol group Hinatazaka46. Her performance exudes a quiet weariness that needs no explanation; you feel it in the way she smiles with a slight delay, in the way she thanks fans with mechanical politeness, in the way she listens to her managers without ever fully engaging. Around her, the other members of the group live by the same rules, including Nanako, played by Yuna Nakamura, whose popularity with fans becomes a double-edged sword when rumors about her private life begin to circulate. One of the most unsettling aspects of the film is how these restrictions are viewed as perfectly normal by everyone involved, as if the idea that young women cannot date were simply part of the job—no more shocking than learning a dance routine or recording a new single.

Mai’s encounter with Kei, played by Yuki Kura, introduces a completely different rhythm to the film. Unlike the highly controlled world of Happy Fanfare, Kei lives as a street performer, moving from place to place in a van, free from any contracts or expectations. Their relationship develops with a simplicity that seems almost out of place in such a rigid environment, and Koji Fukada deliberately keeps these moments understated. There are no grand romantic declarations, only small gestures, shared silences, and a few almost magical scenes where Kei performs tricks that seem to suspend reality for a moment. These touches of poetic realism are rare but effective, suggesting that love, in this world, is something fragile and almost unreal—a rupture in the system rather than a natural part of life. The contrast between Mai’s planned existence and Kei’s improvised one becomes the emotional heart of the film, even before the story shifts toward its legal conflict.

The turning point comes when the consequences of the idol system suddenly become concrete. After another member of the group is exposed for having a boyfriend and forced into a humiliating public apology, tension skyrockets during a fan event that descends into violence. The scene is filmed with an almost clinical detachment, which makes it all the more unsettling, as Koji Fukada refuses to sensationalize the danger in the manner of a thriller. Instead, he presents it as the logical outcome of a system built on obsession and illusion. This moment drives Mai to make the decision that gives the film its title: she chooses love, leaves the group, and soon finds herself in court, sued by her own agency for violating the clause prohibiting romantic relationships. The transition to the courtroom drama is abrupt, but it is intentional, as if the film itself were reminding us that the emotional story has never been separate from the legal one.

The second half, which takes place largely during the trial, is where the film becomes more overtly political, without ever being aggressive about it. The legal arguments dissect the idol industry piece by piece, exposing the contradictions of a system that sells intimacy while prohibiting real relationships. What makes these scenes compelling is that Koji Fukada avoids easy answers. Managers aren’t portrayed as monsters, fans aren’t all villains, and even the contract itself is presented as something that exists because the public demands it. This ambiguity may frustrate viewers expecting a clear condemnation, but it also lends the film a unsettling realism. In a particularly striking moment, the discussion turns to the idea that the illusion of availability is part of what fans pay for, raising unsettling questions about consent, control, and the price of fame.

In terms of acting, the film relies almost entirely on Kyoko Saito, who carries it with remarkable restraint. Her character, Mai, is neither rebellious, nor outspoken, nor even particularly self-assured. She is simply tired, and this exhaustion becomes the most compelling argument against the system in which she lives. Yuki Kura brings a gentle presence to the character of Kei, though the script sometimes relegates him to the background once the trial begins, as if the film were more interested in the principle of love than in the relationship itself. The performances of the supporting cast, notably Erika Karata as the band’s manager and Kenjiro Tsuda as the agency head, add shades of realism, embodying people who simply believe they are doing their jobs in an industry that has always operated this way. Visually, the contrast between the colorful stage performances and the cold, almost colorless interiors of the courtroom reinforces the idea that the fantasy world crumbles the moment it is confronted with reality.

What makes Love on Trial fascinating, yet also slightly frustrating, is that it never fully explodes emotionally. Even when the subject matter suggests outrage, the film remains calm, almost detached, as if Koji Fukada wanted the audience to draw their own conclusions rather than guide them. This approach lends the story a certain elegance, but it also sometimes diminishes the dramatic impact, especially compared to other films about celebrity and star culture that adopt a more aggressive tone. The pace may seem slow, and the supporting characters aren’t always developed enough for the stakes to be as high as they could be. Yet there is something quietly powerful in this refusal to exaggerate, as if the director were saying that reality itself is disturbing enough without cinematic embellishment.

Love on Trial is less a love story than a study of a system that turns love into a legal problem. It may not offer the emotional intensity some viewers expect, but it offers a thoughtful and unsettling look at a world where image is more valuable than truth and where simply being in a relationship can become a breach of contract. Thanks to Koji Fukada’s understated direction and Kyoko Saito’s deeply credible performance, the film remains captivating even when it seems deliberately subdued. It is a work that invites reflection more than it seeks to elicit applause, and although it never fully realizes the dramatic potential of its premise, it leaves a lingering unease that seems entirely intentional.

Love on Trial
Directed by Koji Fukada
Written by Koji Fukada, Shintaro Mitani
Produced by Shin Yamaguchi, Yoko Abe, Atsuko Ôno
Starring Kyōko Saitō, Erika Karata, Kenjiro Tsuda
Cinematography: Hidetoshi Shinomiya
Edited by Sylvie Lager
Music by Takaaki Yamamoto
Production companies: Toho, Survivance
Distributed by Toho (Japan), Art House (France)
Release dates: May 22, 2025 (Cannes), January 23, 2026 (Japan), March 25, 2026 (France)
Running time: 124 minutes

Viewed on January 13, 2026 at the Max Linder Panorama

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