What elevates Perfect Blue beyond mere thriller territory is its prophetic understanding of celebrity culture's dark underbelly. The film predicted our current era of digital doppelgangers and performative identities decades before social media, with Mima's torment coming not from any supernatural force but from the mundane horrors of fandom and capitalism. Her stalker's obsession mirrors modern parasocial relationships taken to their logical extreme, while the entertainment industry's exploitation of her trauma feels ripped from contemporary #MeToo stories. Even the film's visual language—the way TV screens and computer monitors frame Mima's breakdown—feels eerily prescient of our screen-obsessed present.
For all its brilliance, Perfect Blue remains a punishing watch that refuses catharsis. The animation's rawness (particularly in violent sequences) hasn't aged gracefully, and Kon's commitment to psychological realism means the plot deliberately withholds satisfying answers. But these aren't flaws so much as necessary discomforts—the film earns its 8/10 rating by being profoundly disturbing in ways most horror never attempts. It's the kind of work that changes how you see other films (from Black Swan to Parasite), yet so emotionally grueling that its greatest achievement might be making you never want to experience it again.
