More Than a Star, Less Than A Person

If you live your life through parasocial relationships with the celebrities you adore, you’re definitely not alone. Honestly, I’ve been there too—maybe I still am. I mean, who doesn’t fantasize about becoming best friends with that one actor or influencer? Who hasn’t devoted so much time to a star or an idol’s career that, at some point, it almost becomes something religious?

But over the years, I’ve learned (shocking) that some things we see or hear about famous people just aren’t true. A lot of the gossip, blind items, interactions, or clips of your favourite stars—whether they’re portrayed negatively or positively—are usually shaped that way for the sake of sensationalism. At this point, I probably know more about certain celebrities' love lives than I do about my own personal finances.

It’s easy to fall into the illusion that we can really understand other people's lives, even when we're talking about someone who's famous and whose existence is so vastly different from ours. Or at least, I think it’s easy—I might just be projecting. Anyway, I’ve learned that the more you dive into it, the more you realize how much of what we know about celebrities' lives is part of a manufactured reality. Aka Akasaka, the creator of Kaguya-sama: Love is War, noticed this and made another anime from it.

Oshi no Ko, a 2023 anime, exploded in popularity when it first aired. At first glance, it might seem like just another “idol anime.” You know the kind—shiny performances, cute characters, and a dash of drama. But honestly, Oshi no Ko isn’t here to give you a lighthearted fantasy. It’s a brutal deconstruction of idol culture in Japan, and by extension, of our collective obsession with the glamorous lives of celebrities.

Although I’m talking about idol culture in Japan here, we know that the Western version of celebrity culture has its own dark side too. Also, I’m not here to argue that being a wealthy celebrity is inherently difficult—that’s far from the truth. However, from what I’ve seen, for many artists the journey to fame is far from easy, especially in Japan and Korea, and particularly in the K-pop and J-pop industries.

I've watched a bunch of documentaries about J-pop and K-pop groups, including some that detail the struggles idols face and reveal the immense sacrifices they make along the way. It's a gruelling process that involves intense training, public scrutiny, and personal tolls. For a closer look at this harsh reality, I highly recommend watching this documentary about Korea’s failed 9Muses group. It offers a raw and honest glimpse into the darker side of the entertainment industry, showcasing the pressures, sacrifices, and sometimes heartbreaking costs of chasing stardom.

For those unfamiliar with J-pop, idols in Japan tend to be young performers—usually girls—who sing, dance, and appear on TV shows. These idols have massive fan bases made up of “respectable” fans who see them not just as performers, but as these perfect, untainted figures. The catch? They’re expected to be flawless, always. Not just in their talent, but in their personal lives too. The moment they slip up—whether it's something as small as getting a boyfriend or making a mistake on social media—they're torn apart. It’s this suffocating pressure that Oshi no Ko explores in depth, showing how the entertainment industry manipulates and exploits its idols. And, let’s be real, the same fans who adore idols are often the ones helping to fuel the fire.

At the heart of Oshi no Ko is Ai Hoshino, a famous idol who becomes pregnant under mysterious circumstances. The story kicks off when Ai decides to keep her pregnancy secret while also not giving up her career as an idol—a choice that leads to a wave of personal and professional disasters. The first episode is like a rollercoaster that takes you straight into the dark underbelly of fame. We see Ai juggling stardom and being a mother while facing financial struggles, relentless manipulation from managers, and the brutal fact that most idol careers are short-lived. There’s a particularly eye-opening moment when Ai’s screen time is cut short on a film set—not because she’s lacking in talent, but because she’s outshining the main actress. It’s a sobering reminder of how the industry values popularity and marketability over actual talent.

And here’s the twist: the doctor who delivers Ai’s twin children is murdered by a stalker and reincarnated as one of her kids. Yes, reincarnation is part of the show’s charm. Aquamarine (yes, the doctor’s reincarnation) is born into this idol world. I know, it sounds weird—because it is. But it’s also a genius narrative move that plays with the show’s themes of identity, fame, and the inescapable grip of the entertainment industry.

You might be wondering, “What does reincarnation have to do with idol culture?” The short answer: a lot. The show uses reincarnation as more than just a quirky device—it’s a clever way to show how the entertainment industry commodifies people, even after they've passed on. Aquamarine, now reborn as Ai’s child, has to navigate the same idol world Ai lived in, one where fame comes at an immense price. And what about Aquamarine's twin sister, Ruby? Well, she remembers her past life too, which complicates things even further. This aspect of the show draws from a fantasy that many Japanese people share: the idea of being reincarnated as their offspring. Oshi no Ko takes that idea to another level.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. The show does give us moments of humanity, where even the most complex characters show some growth. This balance of light and dark is part of what makes Oshi no Ko so compelling. This anime isn’t just about bad people doing bad things; it’s also about how their pressures and struggles lead them down paths that are morally gray.

One of the most powerful aspects of Oshi no Ko is its portrayal of social media’s destructive power—and how scary that is, which is a theme that’s more relevant now than ever. In the show, online harassment is rampant. Harassers target and destroy celebrities and regular folks alike while hiding behind the anonymity of their screens. It’s easy to forget that the person on the other side of your phone screen is a real human being with feelings, and Oshi no Ko doesn’t shy away from depicting the effects of that kind of behaviour.

This is embodied by Akane, a character who, after making a small mistake on a reality dating show, becomes the target of a relentless online hate campaign. And when I say "mistakes," I mean that Akane either takes part in insignificant disputes or commits small accidents—I don’t mean scandals like grooming children, scamming fans, or other illegal predatory behaviour (those Hollywood issues are a completely different story, anyway). Akane’s storyline hits especially hard because it mirrors real-life tragedies, like that of Hana Kimura, a professional wrestler who was bullied online to the point of tragedy.

Hana Kimura, a contestant on the Japanese reality show Terrace House, was the victim of relentless online abuse after a minor incident was twisted into a narrative by the producers. In one episode, a personal outfit of hers was damaged by a castmate, but instead of showing it as a simple misunderstanding, the show’s editors painted her as the villain. The internet’s response was swift and cruel. Hana’s posts became darker and more desperate as she shared the emotional toll the harassment took on her. Tragically, Hana took her own life at just 22 years old. After that, the people who tormented Hana managed to move on with their lives and pretend as if nothing had happened.

The production company that made Terrace House also kept going as if nothing had changed. Hana's trajectory and Akane’s story are chilling reminders of how quickly fans are able to throw someone away once the image they’ve created from parasocial relationships falls apart. But the most disturbing thing about this? After all the hate, the same fans who participated in someone’s downfall will probably move on like nothing ever happened. That lack of self-awareness is mind-blowing.

Akane's character arc gives her a second chance and redemption, which is often praised by fans on social media. Still, when I log onto Twitter, I see some of the same people who would praise Oshi no Ko for Akane's story join in on the next online hate mob. It’s disheartening, to say the least, that even after witnessing such cruelty in fiction (and maybe knowing about Hana Kimura, too), some fans still don’t seem to realize how often they’re complicit—or even take part—in cruel behaviour in real life.

But Oshi no Ko isn’t just about social media’s cruelty—it’s also about how our online lives reflect our larger obsession with idols and perfection. Ai Hoshino, the heart of the story, has a tragic fate and represents more than just an idol who lives and dies for fame; Ai’s story is about how the idol system and society exploit her, making her a product to be consumed until there’s nothing left.

By the time Ai dies, her final, most authentic moment is a simple declaration of love for her children. It’s heartbreaking, not just because of her death, but because she never knew she loved her children so intensely until she finally understood what that feeling was, being completely devoid of it throughout her career. So, what did I learn from Oshi no Ko? As someone who’s obsessed with unattainable wealth and influence, I had to confront the reality that behind every idol, every celebrity, is a real person with flaws, dreams, and all. The perfect images we see on our screens are carefully crafted illusions, and the truth is often much messier and darker than we ever thought.

And maybe I also learned something about empathy. Oshi no Ko challenges us to rethink our role in the cycle of idol worship and online harassment. Are we complicit in the dehumanization of celebrities? Do we help maintain these toxic standards of perfection?

Because at the end of the day, an idol doesn’t always have to be a singing, dancing celebrity—it could be your favourite author, a director, or even a random extra from a movie. Someone you idolize for their creative capabilities, unaware of the truth behind the curtain. In the end, Oshi no Ko points the finger at our obsession with fame, our complicity in celebrity culture, and the cost of parasocial relationships. It’s a sobering reminder that the idols we worship are more than just products to consume. And in that realization, maybe we can start to build a more compassionate world.