At the opening of this psychological drama, idol singer Mima prepares to leave the pop girl group CHAM to become an actress on a detective series that is suspiciously similar to "Silence of the Lambs."

But apparently pop idol-dom isn't unlike Scientology: Soon after her departure, Mima begins getting strange phone calls and letters and becomes aware of a web site chronicling her every move in the first person. The only erroneous detail on the page reports that she hates her new career. Her maternal agent Rumi seems skeptical of her client's decision as well, especially when Mima must film a graphic rape scene for the show.

Lurking in many scenes is a hooded figure with acne and bad teeth. Hunched over his computer, typing "Mima's" confessions, he becomes a sort of alter ego for the object of his fanaticism. And he's not alone - another Mima, decked out in a frilly pink and red CHAM costume, bounces through the streets like a balloon, reminding Mima the actress of her betrayal in a high sing-songy voice.

Soon Mima's various personalities collide with each other and with her television show; the lines between fiction and reality, public and private personae don't so much blur as battle for dominance. Who - or what - wins out is not just a don't-give-it-away twist, but a haunting abstraction open to interpretation.

Imagine the final scene in "Sunset Blvd." - in which an unglued Norma Desmond descends her staircase convinced that she's filming some sort of melodrama - drawn into an entire feature, without Joe Gillis to act as interpreter between the audience and Norma's loopy mind.

This is a good thing, at least for those willing to trade clarity for postmodern depth. "Blue" delves into a strange psychological milieu befitting the mind of a deranged former starlet - but serves also as a timely warning and fascinating analysis of a fame-based culture. Liberal use of mirrors, windows, reflections and on-screen cameras call into question the "reality" of any given image. When the shots pan out to reveal that a dramatic scene is just a television shoot, the film's creators subject every subsequent interaction to exposure as fraud. "Blue" fosters a palpable fear that if celebrities, as flesh-and-blood beings, can be reduced to publicity stills, publicity stills can come alive with mortal consequences. (Britney Spears, take note).

Just as the film blurs the line between sanity and insanity, it also remains cryptic about who is the victim. Mima's ostensible health at the end, implied by a cursory gaze at the final scene, would play disappointingly into iconic Hollywood feel goodness, saving its pretty young heroine at the expense of her older, overweight agent. But the too-chipper farewell, in which Mima peers into her rearview mirror and says, "Yep, it's really me" begs the question 'who is she talking to?' If it's the audience, Mima is inherently still wrapped in the layers of voyeurism and vanity that permeate the movie, and therefore, is indelibly gutted of her identity.

But whether it is naïve Mima, her antisocial stalker or Rumi (herself a former idol singer) who suffers, the thriller blatantly indicts a culture that packages its icons in boxes and glorifies them on pedestals, slowly smothering the humanity behind the fame. Yeah, turns out it's not just America that does that.

"Blue" relies too much on symbolism (fish floating belly-up and other in-your-face foreshadowing), but Hideki Hamazu, Satoshi Kon and Hisahsi Eguchi's unusually realistic character designs serve "Blue's" themes well, creating a kind of meta-animation effect. Mima, rendered with heightened realism, strolling past a billboard featuring a big-eyed, pink-haired anime girl is a jarring juxtaposition - Mima has been drawn (physically by "Blue's" art team), but she can't be reduced to a cartoon.

The film is far from perfect, but its Hitchcock-meets-Jean Beaudrillard tone makes for a deep "Blue."