Twelve features deep into a filmography now stretching back almost 25 years, the work of director (and usually writer) Koji Fukada can broadly be defined by an interest in the illusion of stability or momentum being overturned by one single decision or event changing everything for the core characters, often a family unit. In his Un Certain Regard prize-winning “Harmonium” (2016), the welcoming of a former acquaintance into a couple’s home sets off a devastating chain reaction. In “A Girl Missing” (2019), a home nurse for the elderly becomes a pariah via a media circus after her nephew kidnaps the granddaughter of her primary patient. And in “Love Life” (2022), a tragic accident early in the runtime crumbles the superficially peaceful existence that a couple thought they had built for themselves.
In Fukada’s new film, “Love on Trial,” a choice is the catalyst for disruption, but in contrast to most of the director’s previous dramas, where the game-changing developments are usually devastatingly abrupt, the repercussions in “Love on Trial” are known well in advance, looming over the protagonist’s life like an axe overhead. A film of two distinct halves, roughly the first hour of “Love on Trial” is spent exploring the reasons that someone might have to throw away everything they’ve been working towards, despite knowing all too well what kind of problems will ensue. Based on the movie’s English title alone, you’ll already have a sense of how smoothly things go once the choice is made.
Traditional family units are absent for this particular Fukada drama (which is co-written with Shintaro Mitani), though the continued onscreen absence of referenced parents actually proves distracting by a certain point in the runtime. The focus is instead on a found family of sorts: a pop group in Japan’s idol industry.
Our lead, Mai (Kyoko Saito), is part of the five-member group Happy Fan. Or Happy Fanfare. At least in the English-subtitled version screened for this review, the switching between the two names throughout the film makes it unclear as to whether the former name is an abbreviation of the latter, or the latter an in-jokey, affectionate extension of the former. A moment late in the runtime seems to finally confirm that Happy Fanfare is their official title in marketing, but then confusing things further is that at one point, a lorry advertising the group’s commercial breakthrough drives by with the words, ‘This Is New Fanfare.’ This may seem like a pedantic tangent about the subtitling, but it does contribute to a general sketchiness present in Fukada’s realization of this world. Sometimes the lack of detail in portraying the fictional pop group comes across as though budgetary constraints are responsible; other times, it feels like storytelling steps were fudged in favor of shortcuts.
Mai is joined by bandmates Himena, Minami, Risa and Nanako; the latter two she also lives with in a Tokyo apartment. In their recent appearances, including a fourth anniversary show for select fans that opens the film, Mai is placed front and center in their routines, though online feedback suggests their audience would far prefer for Nanako — the bubbliest and seemingly youngest member of the group — to be given a greater focus. Nanako certainly seems to be the most popular girl in the after-show meet-and-greet, with one adult male fan telling her he bought 50 CDs in order to guarantee a ticket for this particular event.
Despite inspiring enough cultish devotion to sell out this intimate show that evidently required fans to search for golden tickets, Happy Fanfare is still a decidedly small operation four years in. With the way the idol industry works, that’s not necessarily uncommon for groups who are that far into their existence. But it definitely seems like being on the perpetual cusp of a wider breakthrough is getting to the increasingly disillusioned Mai. And if the reality of being even a C-tier idol already involves so much scrutiny about what you say and how you interact with people, imagine how it would be if you actually cracked the big leagues. Enter: That crazy little thing called love.
A chance encounter sees Mai reunite with a former school classmate, Kei (Yuki Kura), who scrapes by as a mime and magician while living out of a van. Gradually getting closer to him but withholding from acting on simmering romantic feelings, Mai is restricted in pursuing relationships thanks to her contract. In the real world outside of this film, there have been cases in recent years where Japanese idols were sued by their management company for violating the ‘no relationship’ agreement, which is intended to preserve the girls’ ‘pure’ images so as to increase their number of fans. In one particular case, the defendant girl was ordered by a judge to pay several thousand yen in damages.
Mai’s reticence to bring up her feelings with her bosses — played by Kenjiro Tsuda and Erika Karata — is only heightened by the online furore that occurs when there’s a hint of Nanako being close with a popular male YouTuber; a locked burner account on social media proving far from impervious when obsessed fans are involved. But when the fallout of that uproar — “She betrayed me,” says one Nanako superfan — leads to an even greater violation of the girls’ safety in a public setting, the stage is set for Mai to follow her heart instead of her contract. Despite the serious nature of the incident in question, management insists on maintaining their promotional commitments. In one of the film’s more cutting moments concerning Happy Fanfare’s standing, one of the girls remarks that this threat to their lives being all over the news is the first time that they’ve ever been on TV.
As previously mentioned, “Love on Trial” is a film of two distinct halves, but it’s best to withhold too much description of the second hour’s proceedings, including the exact nature of Mai and Kei’s cases in court eight months on from the first half’s timeline. In execution, this section of the film is uniformly stronger than the prolonged setup. That’s true of the writing, with more nuanced details emerging with the supporting characters; in particular, Nanako and Risa, whose respective investments in Mai’s potential success in fighting their management leads to some touching conversations.
It’s also true of the film’s general aesthetic, which better suits the isolating courtrooms and backrooms of the second half. Fukada’s tendency towards muted color palettes and fairly unflashy cinematography — Hidetoshi Shinomiya (“Drive My Car”) is his DP here — has served him well for the milieux of earlier films like “Harmonium.” But in “Love on Trial,” while there may be an intention to deconstruct the projected glamor of idol pop, the largely drab colors and specific framing choices for shots instead contribute to that aforementioned sketchiness in the world-building surrounding this fictional group. If not one moment of this pop life is ever made to seem glittering and energizing even before things take a turn for the worse, it’s harder to buy into not only why Mai wants to stick with it, but why she was actually drawn to the career in the first place.
That’s no knock on the singing or dancing of the girls, and as a former idol herself, Kyoko Saito as Mai brings in a few performance details that are palpably drawn from a place of personal resonance. But it’s curious that Kei’s work is made to feel more enchanting than even a second spent in the popstar world. The film’s lone brief flirtation with fantasy over naturalism comes in an early showcase of one of his routines that, funnily enough, seems like it would fit in a music video.
Grade: C+
“Love on Trial” premiered at the 2025 Cannes Film Festival. It is currently seeking U.S. distribution.
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