Susumu Niijima: “Oshi” as a Survival Strategy—Through Works Depicting “Oshi”

2024/04/05

In recent years, the word “oshi” has become a part of everyday language. And its usage carries no negative connotations. On the contrary, it is even combined with the word “tōtoi” (sacred or precious). Now, both social convention and the discourse surrounding oshi are all pushing us to believe that it’s okay to have an oshi. However, I also feel a certain unease about this absolution of the oshi phenomenon. The term is said to have originated in the 1980s within small circles of idol fans and became widespread in the 2010s with the rise of idol groups—a trend naturally driven by the evolution of media from television to the internet and social media. And when I think about how fans who support idols are still called “idol otaku,” “doru-ota,” or simply “otaku,” and how this term was once perceived with extremely negative imagery, I wonder if this means that being an otaku has finally gained positive recognition. Or, by changing the terminology, have we, as with words like “papakatsu” (sugar daddy activities), wiped away some kind of guilt? In reality, what is the difference between “tsumu” for an idol—that is, buying (stacking up) a large number of CDs to shake hands with your oshi—and splurging at a hostess club or host club? As long as it doesn't lead to self-destruction, can we say that how one spends their money is a matter of personal freedom?

When considering the source of this unease, stories that depict oshi offer truly rich insights. This article will primarily examine two works: Auri Hirao’s manga series `"Oshi ga Budōkan Ittekuretara Shinu" (If My Favorite Pop Idol Made It to the Budokan, I Would Die)` (Tokuma Shoten, 2015–) and Rin Usami’s novel `"Oshi, Moyu" (My Favorite Idol Is Burning)` (Kawade Shobo Shinsha, 2020). Before that, however, a simple framework is necessary.

Supporting an oshi is, in the end, a technique for living in modern media society. Akio Kumashiro’s `"‘Oshi’ de Kokoro wa Mitasareru?" (Can "Oshi" Fulfill Your Heart?)` (Daiwa Shobo, 2024) primarily explains oshi from the perspective of self psychology, a theory proposed by Austrian psychiatrist Heinz Kohut. To maintain mental health, people need to fulfill their narcissism. This is achieved either by having one’s need for approval met by being admired by a mirroring selfobject (another person) or by satisfying one’s need to belong by admiring an idealized selfobject (another person). Such acts not only relate to individual mental management but also, by requiring others, become the foundation for building social relationships between individuals.

But according to Mr. Akio Kumashiro, modern (Japanese) society has become one where the fulfillment of narcissism through selfobjects is difficult to mature. Selfobjects are experienced in early childhood through relationships with parents (being recognized by the mother as a mirroring selfobject and admiring the father as an idealized selfobject), but the rise of the nuclear family diminishes this experience. Due to long working hours and solo job transfers, fathers are absent in many households, and in single-mother families, it is even more difficult for the mother alone to serve as both an idealized and a mirroring selfobject. Furthermore, the relationships between children and the traditional role models who once substituted for parents—older siblings, grandparents, relatives, and members of the local community—are becoming increasingly thin. In other words, the underlying shift is from a high-contact society to a low-contact one. It goes without saying that the pandemic of the 2020s accelerated this. As I write this article, there was a report that the “Kokuseki-ji Somin-sai,” a bizarre festival in Oshu City, Iwate Prefecture, where naked men scramble for talismans, is ending its thousand-year history. The abolition of naked festivals and the popularization of oshi are two sides of the same coin in our media society and are not unrelated. The live shows and birthday events of underground idols are, quite literally, festivals for otaku.

And then, before us, with our low proficiency in narcissistic fulfillment, the oshi appears. Idols and characters appear in an instant when we look at our smartphones, and they are sparkling, perfect idealized selfobjects. During the Heisei era, the idol industry, by linking with Akihabara, merged with the “moe” of anime culture, and characters also became oshi. Supporting an oshi fulfills the need to belong, and being recognized as someone who supports an oshi also fulfills the need for approval. The boundary between an idealized selfobject and a mirroring selfobject is ambiguous to begin with, and a lack of approval can be compensated for by supporting an oshi. Therefore, supporting an oshi can be called a survival strategy for navigating modern media society. Thus, we have no choice but to affirm the oshi. And business does not overlook this desire of modern people. “In our society, the need for approval and the need to belong have been completely commercialized, once taking the form of hostess clubs, host clubs, professional baseball, and pro wrestling. Today, they also take the form of game and anime character businesses, or influencer businesses, and selfobjects packaged as products have become widely popular. / Today, as long as you have the money, you can find a selfobject on the other side of a screen anytime, anywhere, and a culture of experiencing characters on the other side of the screen as selfobjects has taken root. You don’t need a fortune, nor do you have to go all the way to the Tokyo Dome or Comiket. If we consider the current situation where selfobjects are mass-produced and mass-consumed as a business, you could even say that there has never been an era that makes it so easy to satisfy narcissism” (Kumashiro, p. 115). From contact-based communication mediated by alcohol to non-contact communication mediated by media. Of course, in recent years, problems related to host clubs have surfaced as women have emerged as consumers, so these trends are concurrent. But a new business model has been born, focusing on the low proficiency of modern people in narcissistic fulfillment and the economy of media. The problem, however, is that such oshi are not perfect. It is precisely because they are perfect that they are not perfect.

The chorus of YOASOBI’s “Idol,” the theme song for Aka Akasaka and Mengo Yokoyari’s manga series `"Oshi no Ko"` (2020–), is “You are the perfect and ultimate idol.” The note for “ai” (love), which is also part of the heroine’s name, is the highest note in the song before the key change (F#5) and cannot be produced with a natural voice; singer Ikura also uses a falsetto. This ultra-high note brilliantly expresses the meaning of the word “ai” (a loss that can never be obtained), which verbalizes an ideal that exists only beyond the media, like idols and characters, and the phrase “perfect and ultimate.” Yes, the reason oshi cannot become ideal idealized selfobjects is due to the paradox that they lack the flaws that a selfobject should inherently possess. Akio Kumashiro explains, “The ‘optimal frustration’ necessary for the growth of narcissism cannot be experienced in the relationship with an ‘oshi’” (p. 116). Naturally, while supporting an oshi can fulfill one’s narcissism, one cannot navigate the real world with that alone. It remains difficult to grow by using others one must interact with in the real world—often bosses, seniors, and colleagues—as selfobjects. Oshi are perfect, and if by some chance a flaw is found, the idol/character industry will economically provide another oshi from a countless supply. While living in such a media environment supported by business, we must still drag our physical bodies through life in the real world. When stories depict this dilemma, we find reality in them, and a resonance with our own love occurs.

In `"Oshi ga Budōkan Ittekuretara Shinu"` (hereafter `OshiBudo`), the interactions between the members of ChamJam, a fictional underground female idol group active in Okayama City, Okayama Prefecture, and their fans—the otaku—are comically depicted. The work has gained popularity for its fluid art style, a unique sense of humor with distinctive pacing, and the accuracy of its portrayal of otaku ecology—so-called “aru-aru” (relatable moments). The protagonist is a young woman named Eri (commonly known as Eripiyo), who is an oshi of Maina Ichii, an idol a few years younger than her. Although they are of the same sex, it is difficult to find a connection to the so-called yuri genre (there are several other female couples, and focusing on relationships between women has been consistent since the author’s previous full-length work, `"Manga no Tsukurikata" (How to Make Manga)`). Moreover, it is not uncommon in reality for female otaku to support female idols. The basic pattern of the story is a comedy of misunderstandings between two people in love. Auri Hirao is an author who has produced many short stories, and her storytelling is sketch-like. By eliminating the noise and drama that inevitably arise from depicting heterosexual love, the act of being an oshi is expressed in a purer form.

In the first place, the title `"Oshi ga Budōkan Ittekuretara Shinu"` says everything about the love that is supporting an oshi. The Budokan is the “ai” (love) that YOASOBI’s “Idol” sings of, and the verb “to die” is another way of saying that it can never be reached. In other words, it is the place that traditional religions call heaven (the Budokan is located opposite a shrine) and the place that narratology refers to as what comes after the book is closed: “And the prince and princess lived happily ever after.” ChamJam, active in a small town in Okayama Prefecture, is physically and symbolically farthest from the Budokan, which is adjacent to the Imperial Palace in the center of Tokyo and Japan. For the idols and otaku, the Budokan is the illusory destination of a love that can never be reached. Thus, they circle around a phantom Budokan. When the members of ChamJam visit Tokyo for the first time, they go not to the Nippon Budokan but to the Tokyo Budokan in Adachi Ward (Chapter 30), and for her birthday festival, Maina wishes for a Budokan made of cardboard (Chapter 52). Amidst the laughter, the essence of love is depicted here in an exceptionally brilliant way.

The use of blank space is also a characteristic of this author. Despite Eri, and especially Maina, being the heroines, their character settings are kept to a minimum. In the live-action version of `OshiBudo` (2022), Himena Irei, who played Maina, was the only actress from a child actor background who was not an idol, and her casting was the least character-driven. Perhaps for that reason, or due to her skill as an actress, she expressed this blankness well. When not active with ChamJam, Maina is always alone, whether in town or at home. It is depicted that Eri lives with her parents and works at a bread factory, and she has a friend who is also an oshi of a certain character, but there is a line like, “I was often alone” (Chapter 12). Her mother appears relatively frequently, and there is an episode where her aunt and uncle appear, but her father has never once been shown. The almost only male character other than the otaku is Yoshikawa, who manages ChamJam, but he is not even given a first name and does not serve as a fatherly role model. This absence of a father, this blank space, is interesting when considered in conjunction with the aforementioned discussion by the psychiatrist.

If Eri and Maina are models of modern individuals who have trouble with narcissistic fulfillment, it can be inferred that they become each other’s selfobjects (a twinship selfobject, due to their similarity in loneliness), achieving stability by fulfilling each other’s narcissism. And readers, through this relationship, fulfill their own narcissism (while reading). However, Eri’s words and actions do not hide the fact that this dual stability is supported by business. Living with her parents, she spends all the income she earns from the bread factory on her oshi activities for Maina, and when she gets injured and cannot work, she laments, “I have no reason to exist if I can’t ‘tsumu’” (Chapter 9). Furthermore, the scene where the two happen to meet on a train is extremely impressive (Chapter 6). Having unexpectedly encountered her oshi outside of a theater—that is, in a situation where she hasn’t paid money—Eri says to a bewildered Maina, “Sorry… I’ll change cars,” and leaves the spot. Eri understands what kind of system supports the act of being an oshi.

Because Eri and Maina are of the same sex, and for the reasons mentioned above, their idol/otaku relationship is stable. The same is true for the senior otaku Kumasa and his oshi, Reo Igarashi, because Kumasa is an ideal otaku (the two are similar in that they are the leaders of the otaku side and the idol side, respectively). This reassures the reader. However, another otaku friend, Motoi Yuki, who has romantic feelings for ChamJam member Sorane Matsuyama—in other words, is a “gachikoi”—is still in training as an otaku, and his narcissistic fulfillment is unstable (Sorane is set to resemble Motoi’s actual sister, Rena). There is an episode where he meets another otaku who is also struggling with gachikoi, but this one is a female otaku supporting a female idol. She mutters the power word, “The pain of gachikoi makes me want to quit, but ‘I love you’ is a powerful spell, so I can’t break it myself” (Chapter 35). This encounter leads to a very slight mutual understanding between the two via social media, and Motoi’s mental state is maintained. And at that time, Motoi is on the train home from a concert, surrounded by Eri and Kumasa. The reason `OshiBudo` does not become just an ideal or just a tragedy depicting the relationship between idols and otaku is that the social relationship of this trio of otaku is extremely stable. While supporting their oshi, in the process, they find real selfobjects (within the story) in a community that is not family, region, or workplace. The sight of the three connected online, yet at the same time, gathered around a coffee shop table, enthusiastically discussing idols, is reminiscent of a pseudo-family gathering, a do-over of family, and the reader experiences sitting in the fourth empty seat.

The work is not yet complete. In Volume 9, particularly, there is the story’s biggest hook: the announcement of the retirement of ChamJam’s unshakeable center, Reo Igarashi. The next volume is expected to depict an ideal farewell with Kumasa, and along with that, there are signs of change in Maina’s blankness, making the last few chapters unusually dramatic for this author. What was most shocking was a single scene suggesting that Reo’s reason for retirement is to care for her grandmother. This one illustration brought to mind another oshi work that, although in a different genre, shares the word “oshi” in its title and has common elements.

In Rin Usami’s `"Oshi, Moyu" (My Favorite Idol Is Burning)`, the Akutagawa Prize-winning work for the second half of fiscal 2020, themes such as a collapsing family, mental illness, and the mother-child relationship within that context are depicted. This is consistent from her debut work `"Kaka"` (2019) to her latest, `"Kuruma no Musume" (Daughter in the Car)` (2023), and the three works can even be said to form a series. The protagonist, Akari, is a high school student but suffers from a (mental) illness for which she has received “a couple of diagnoses” at the hospital. In her childhood, she had trouble learning to read, and her mother and sister did not hide their disappointment in her. She now works part-time at a diner but is slow to learn her tasks. What supports her, unable to adapt to her family and society, is her single-minded devotion to Masaki Ueno, a member of the idol group Maza Maza. But in the summer of her second year of high school, Masaki assaults a fan, and the fan community erupts in flames (“moyu” means to burn). Eventually, Akari drops out of high school due to poor attendance. Around the same time, her grandmother passes away, and she begins living alone in her grandmother’s house, but she has been fired from her part-time job, lacks the ability to work, and her relationship with her family, who cannot understand this, deteriorates further. Amidst all this, her oshi, Masaki, retires from the entertainment industry after hinting at marriage. Akari loses all hope. “The me who doesn’t support my oshi wasn’t me. A life without my oshi was just the rest of my life” (p. 112).

However, Akari is not despairing over her oshi’s marriage and retirement. Even though she decorates a shelf that otaku call an “altar” with CDs every time a new song is released (p. 36, the altar is likely another Budokan), she is not a gachikoi. She had always wanted to access the world not through her own body, not through the self that “can’t live a normal life,” but through the body and mind of her oshi, who could be called her other self. That was how she had managed to survive. Therefore, a relationship with her oshi through the media was fine. “I think there is a kindness in that distance, be it on a phone or TV screen, or between the stage and the audience. There’s no getting closer by talking to the other person, no risk of destroying the relationship by doing something. I think there’s a sense of peace in being able to feel someone’s presence from a fixed distance. Above all, when I’m supporting my oshi, when I’m engrossed with my whole being, even if it’s one-sided, I feel more fulfilled than ever” (p. 62). Akari, unable to adapt to society, seems to have given up on fulfilling her narcissism through relationships with those around her.

And there is a reason for this. The oshi’s scandal is a major event in the work, but what drives this story at a deeper level is the death of her grandmother and the collapse of the family that is once again made visible. The situation of the family traveling by car for the funeral is repeated in the next work, `"Kuruma no Musume"`, but in `"Oshi, Moyu"`, this occasion brings about the temporary return of her “father, who is not in Japan due to a solo job transfer, a father who dresses in stylish suits and occasionally comes back to say bright, insensitive things” (p. 90). Akari grew up in a family of her mother, sister, and herself. It is suggested that her father, who should have been her idealized selfobject, was absent, and her mother and sister, who should have been her mirroring selfobjects, did not satisfy her need for approval due to Akari’s developmental delays. Akari first saw her oshi when she was four years old; Masaki, then a child actor, was playing Peter Pan on stage. Including the symbols of Peter Pan and Neverland (another Budokan), all the elements for Masaki to later become Akari’s idealized selfobject are present here. And her grandmother, who should have taken on the role of Akari’s selfobject in place of her mother, lived far away and passed away around the same time as the oshi’s retirement. After visiting the apartment where Masaki, who has quit being an idol and become just a normal person, presumably lives with his spouse, Akari returns home and repeats Masaki’s act of hitting a fan by throwing a case of cotton swabs she happens to see. Her figure, gathering the scattered cotton swabs, overlaps with the act of picking up her own bones after her symbolic death, and further, her grandmother’s bones. At this moment, the “burning” in the title also implies the grandmother’s cremation.

Unable to walk on two feet in the real world, driven out of school and work, and completely cut off from society by losing her oshi and from her family by losing her grandmother, all that was left for Akari was to crawl and pick up the cotton swabs/bones. The novel does not record any hope that Akari will be able to have a community in the future, a solidarity like the trio in `OshiBudo`. Just as `"Kuruma no Musume"` ends with the words “not committing a love suicide,” should we find a faint light in the words “while crawling” and “I thought I would live on this for a while” (p. 125)? However, when we think about Akari’s way of life up to that point, it is clear that the oshi beyond the media, the fantasy of the Budokan, is not just an empty void.

Works that depict oshi vividly reflect the inner reality of the act of supporting them through the power of story and representation—its necessity, its dangers, and its mechanisms. That is why we turn the pages of such works. Because in recent times, to think about oshi is to confirm the current location of one’s own love, and that is a barometer for measuring one’s mental health.