“The Gesuidouz” by Kenichi Ogana is a whimsical and joyful song about a Japanese punk band, whose 26-year-old lead singer Hanako (Natsuko) believes she will die at 27, the same age as Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain. The quartet’s wry musical energy is reflected visually at every turn, with bright and muted visual effects that find humor in the gloom.
The result is a delicate, self-assured ode to creativity and finding one’s voice through genre cinema—the group’s songs and albums revolve around Hollywood horror films—with a specific viewer in mind. On the one hand, the film is decidedly Japanese in its sensibility. Natsuko translates Hanako’s despondent mood into ruminations and refractions on what it’s like to be trapped in her own skin; she rarely strays from the character’s icy stillness, though she does reveal a surprising sense of warmth at times. On the other hand, midnight movie fans in North America who frequent the likes of Montreal’s Fantasia Festival and Austin’s Fantastic Festival will find themselves represented, both physically and spiritually. Jesudos’ international success has found fans in Quebec, and even among two well-known American directors in the genre, who appear in amusing cameos.
But before they can achieve this success, the band must first navigate the misery of poor album sales and the threat of being fired from their label, at which point their manager (Yuya Endo) gives them an ultimatum. Well, it’s more of an ultimatum that Hanako forces out of said manager (she’s pretty good with a power drill), but the premise of the film finds the band living on a rural farm, on the condition that they come up with a new hit song. Here, Hanako meets the farm owner’s kindly elderly mother, who doesn’t understand the band’s appeal but is no less fascinated by their work, and proves to be an unlikely support system.
Meanwhile, Hanako and the other members of the group—played by a multi-ethnic cast that includes Leo Imamura, Yutaka Kian, and Roku Zevenbergen; the group’s name means “guest house”—talk to the camera, which initially represents a certain journalist, who asks them questions in a particularly low-key, languid moment. The lens, however, eventually takes on the conceptual presence of an attentive, curious eye. Though static and often distant, it encourages them to find themselves again, getting close to each other’s faces during moments of inspiration, which the actors exaggerate before they begin playing ear-catching instrumentals.
The film also includes bits of magical realism, such as a Shiba Inu dog that offers advice, and individual songs that are literally (and somewhat disgustingly) created as talking cassette tapes. However, these songs go largely unnoticed, adding to Ojana's deadpan humor. In typical Aki Kaurismaki style, this deadpan approach masks surprisingly poignant moments.
Although much of The Gesuidouz revolves around the idea of creativity through imitation and inspiration—which would make a good double feature with the Swedish youth film We Are the Best!—Ojana’s approach remains very original. The film is mostly easygoing and simple, with enough meaning hidden in its comfortable scenes to make it enjoyable and sometimes encouraging, even if its target audience is very specific. There’s nothing wrong with using a bit of tongue-in-cheek cinematic language as long as it works.
