A Sardonic Japanese Genre Comedy

Kenichi Ugana‘s “The Gesuidouz” is a delightful deadpan oddity about a Japanese punk group, whose 26-year-old lead singer Hanako (Natsuko) is convinced she’ll be dead at 27, the same age as Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain. The quartet’s sardonic musical energy translates visually at every turn, with bright, subdued visual affectations that find humor in the morose.

The result is a fluffy, 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 particular viewer in mind. The film is, on one hand, undoubtedly Japanese in its sensibilities. Natsuko translates Hanako’s despondent mood into reflections and refractions on feeling trapped in her skin; she seldom strays from the character’s icy stillness, though she reveals a stunning sense of warmth on occasion. On the other hand, North American midnight movie fans who frequent the likes of Montreal’s Fantasia Fest and Austin’s Fantastic Fest will find themselves represented both physically and spiritually. The Gesuidouz’s international success finds them admirers in Quebec, and even among a couple of recognizable American genre directors, who makes amusing cameos.

However, before finding this success, the group must first trudge through the misery of poor album sales and threats of being dropped 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 handy with a power drill), but the film’s premise finds the group taking up residence on a rural farm, on the condition that they come up with a new hit. Here, Hanako befriends the farm owner’s sweet, elderly mother, who doesn’t understand the band’s appeal, but is no less fascinated by their work, and proves to be an unexpected support system.

All the while, Hanako and the other group members — played by a multi-ethnic ensemble comprising Leo Imamura, Yutaka Kyan, and Rocko Zevenbergen; the band’s name means “guesthouse”  — speak to and acknowledge the camera, which is initially a stand-in for a specific journalist, who asks them questions at a particularly low and listless point. However, the lens eventually takes on the conceptual presence of a watchful, curious eye. Although it’s still and often distant, it goads them into finding themselves again, and crash-zooms into each of their faces during moments of inspiration, which the actors exaggerate before breaking into earworm instrumentation.

The movie features bits of magical realism too, like an advice-giving Shiba Inu dog, and singles that are quite literally (and somewhat disgustingly) birthed in the form of talking cassette tapes. However, these largely go unremarked upon, adding to Ugana’s stone-faced humor. In Aki Kaurismäki-esque fashion, this deadpan approach disguises surprisingly moving moments.

While much of “The Gesuidouz” concerns the idea of creativity through imitation and inspiration —  it would make a fitting double feature with Swedish young punk movie “We Are the Best!” — Ugana’s approach still proves highly original. The film is, for the most part, a breeze, with just enough meaning nestled into its easy-going scenes to make for a delightful and at times affirming watch, even though its target audience is hyper-specific. There’s nothing wrong with an in-joke or in-group cinematic language so long as it’s effective.