Helter Skelter

(Herutâ Sukerutâ)

The Collapse of a Product Goddess’s Identity…To Rot.

I know many people love “Helter Skelter” (original title: “Herutâ sukerutâ”) and honestly…I get why. It’s glossy, pink, hypnotic, and visually stunning. But underneath all that, for over two hours, there was only one thought running in my mind: Lilico is a cunt.

And I don’t think I’ve ever had such a one-note feeling about a female character before. Usually, even the worst ones carry some kind of suffering, some crack where humanity slips through. Something that explains them, even just a little…But not here.

Yes, Lilico (Erika Sawajiri) has moments of weakness, moments where you could read her pain and struggle—but they feel like decorative glitter. They don’t lead anywhere. Because this is a character who consciously built her own cruelty. She chose it, shaped it, perfected it.

And that’s what happens when you crave fame with nothing to offer except beauty—beauty that’s been bought at a price so high there’s no way back.

What’s interesting is that the film knows exactly what it’s doing. There’s a deliberate lack of empathy from the film itself. It doesn’t ask you to understand Lilico. It doesn’t guide you toward compassion. It just throws you into her world and lets you sit in the artificiality of it all.

And in that sense, it’s kind of brilliant.

Because long before social media reached this mental level, director Mika Ninagawa’s “Helter Skelter” was already tapping into something very real. The obsession with image and the cost of fame. The need to stay on top of this fake TOKYWOOD system.

The idea that it doesn’t matter what you sacrifice—identity, body, sanity—as long as you remain famous…Until, it all breaks.

The moment where the fans turning on her happens is probably the most powerful part of the film. The illusion cracks, the truth comes out, and suddenly it’s all public humiliation. The same people who worshipped her are now destroying her. Not because they care—but because they feel betrayed by her.

That’s where the film really hits—this early echo of cancel culture, this almost predictive take on modern online shaming. And what follows is pure identity collapse.

That part feels uncomfortably relevant today, maybe even more than it did in 2012. But for all its strengths, the film isn’t flawless.

The biggest issue is the length. There are moments where it genuinely feels like the film is ending…then it just keeps going. And going. Almost like it doesn’t know where to stop. Instead of deepening the story, that repetition sometimes flattens it.

Also, some themes feel frustratingly underdeveloped. The plastic surgery clinic, for example, is such a crucial element, but we only get it in fragments.

It’s there, it matters, but it never fully expands into the disturbing core it could have been—a factory for identity, quietly mass-producing perfection until it breaks. So you’re left with a film that touches a lot, but doesn’t always go all the way. Still, I don’t hate it. Not at all.

It’s a film with a very clear vision—terrific performances, striking direction, and a suffocatingly curated aesthetic. It knows exactly how ugly beauty can become. And even when it feels too long or too distant, it never feels accidental.

Because in the end, “Helter Skelter” isn’t about becoming a victim. It’s about becoming the product. And what happens when that product starts to rot.