Netflix has been quietly nurturing a space for a certain kind of story. Stories about real-life women who build themselves from nothing, who chase money not just for survival but as identity, who climb the social ladder with such single-minded focus that, somewhere along the way, they begin to resemble the very people they once resisted. There is desire at the centre of it all. Desire to escape, to belong, to dominate... and there is always a question — how far can you go before you lose the reason you started with?

It was not long ago that I watched the Korean limited series The Art of Sarah, and the moment I came across Straight to Hell on Netflix, I didn’t need a trailer or synopsis. This is that genre again! The kind that pulls you in, makes you uncomfortable, and yet refuses to let you look away.

A life written for the screen

Directed by Tomoyuki Takimoto and Isao Oba, with a screenplay by Manaka Monaka and music by Hibiki Inamoto, Straight to Hell is a limited nine-episode series that follows the real life of “Hell Lady”, Kazuko Hosoki, the infamous Japanese fortune teller, writer and TV personality. Played by Erika Toda from the age of 17 to 66, Kazuko’s journey begins in the ruins of post-war Japan (1946) and moves through nightclubs, wealth, television fame and controversy. Her catchphrase, “Jigoku ni ochiru wa yo”, meaning: “You are going to hell,” became a cultural imprint in Japan.

The story unfolds through conversations with a novelist named Minori, played by Sairi Ito. It moves in a distinctly non-linear way, shifting between Kazuko’s own narration and the novelist’s growing skepticism as she reaches out to others, piecing together conflicting versions of the same past. Despite all these interruptions and doubts, you find yourself drawn deeper into her story rather than questioning it, just how Minori did.

Framing a life through ruin and colour

When Kazuko describes her origins, she is shown to be a young Kazuko in a red frock stained with black patches and torn in places, standing against the debris of a broken, war-torn Japan. The image naturally brings to mind the girl in the red outfit from the iconic Schindler’s List, but what stays with you here is not just the visual resemblance, but also the sense of how the environment shapes the person — instead of simply noticing the girl, you realise what that world is turning her into. That red returns later in the series, this time as a luxurious coord set worn by Kazuko in her later years. It is a quiet visual loop. In a moment that strikes you, the director shows you the picture of them facing each other across time, across space. The colour grading carries that quiet visual beauty often found in Japanese productions.

The score by Hibiki Inamoto elevates the series with the use of a Japanese snake flute as Kazuko’s signature sound, which is very sharp and unsettling, but it feels fitting for Kazuko, as the instrument is often linked to seduction and quiet control. It also reminded me of a snake shedding its skin, as it keeps changing her life and identity while holding on to the same core, moving from one phase to another. Alongside carefully chosen tracks like Only the Lonely by Frank Sinatra, Mr. Sandman by The Chordettes, to BTS numbers, the soundtrack consistently finds the right note for the right moment.

Performance and distance

Erika Toda carries the series with remarkable control. She moves through innocence, seduction, betrayal, hunger, manipulation, regret and power with consistency. Both Toda and director Takimoto reportedly admitted they were not particularly drawn to Kazuko as a person. That distance perhaps prevents the series from becoming either glorification or condemnation.

The experience of the series also depends a lot on whether you already know Kazuko Hosoki as a public figure in Japan, because familiarity can create a certain distance, while for someone discovering her for the first time, the story unfolds with a much stronger sense of intrigue and immersion.

Game of money and desire

Kazuko does not seem driven by any business in the traditional sense. Her passion is not building systems. It is in earning money, enjoying power — directly, aggressively and instinctively! As someone with an economics degree, this series felt like observing Japan’s economic history through a single life. From post-1946 survival to the 1964 Tokyo Olympics boom, from the 1973 oil crisis to the bubble economy, you are not just watching a country reshape itself, but also a woman rising (and falling) alongside it.

Her life almost feels like a business cycle. There is a clear pattern of peak, decline, and then rebuilding, like a constant movement between success and setback. Interestingly, as a fortune teller, Kazuko Hosoki herself spoke about similar cycles through her six-star astrology, especially phases like the Great Killer Boundary where things begin to fall apart. You can see that pattern reflected in her own life.

Ambition, illusion and controversy

Kazuko’s life moves through multiple identities. Cabaret worker, nightclub owner, Queen of Ginza, fortune teller, television personality, cooking show judge... each phase adds to her myth as well as complicates it. Her sharp mind and powerful presence gave her authority, while magazines like Weekly Gendai questioned her credibility and influence. She stood somewhere between a soothsayer and a charlatan.

This is where the connection with The Art of Sarah becomes clearer. Both women construct identities. Both chase power. Both blur the line between survival and deception. Kazuko’s rise through nightlife, her association with powerful men, even her brushes with the Yakuza (members of traditional Japanese organised crime syndicates, often likened to the mafia) world (you do get a slight Godfather-like touch here and there) add a certain tension and intrigue to her journey. And that is exactly the point. You never fully know who she was, much like in the case of Sarah

A life that comes full circle

By the end, the series does not try to resolve Kazuko. It places Kazuko back against the backdrop of a nation that rose from the ruins. It quietly suggests that some people are shaped by history in ways that cannot be undone. Japan’s post-war ruins are not just a setting... they are part of her making. You begin to see her less as an isolated figure and more as a product of a time, a system, and a history that shaped her choices. It does not try to justify her actions, but it somehow ends up making them legible. Not everyone is a product of war — but some are, and maybe Kazuko was one of them. After finishing the series, I found myself researching her life endlessly. It felt more like continuing the show. As Kazuko Hosoki said after reading Minori’s manuscript: “Entertaining!” And what is Kazuko Hosoki’s life, if not exactly that? It is, in many ways, exactly how Netflix wants it... at least most of it!

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