[Note: This review touches on the film’s themes of suicide that may be triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.]
“What does punk mean to you?” Asking an artist what their passion means to them usually invites a meandering answer that encapsulates the rewards, the incessant pursuit of perfection, and the sacrifices along the way just to chart a path that leads to their goals. For Hanako (Natsuko), however, the answer is simple: “Punk is like this miso soup.”
Director Kenichi Ugana’s latest film, The Gesuidouz, doesn’t aspire to be a refined musical film. Instead, it embraces lo-fi sensibilities, while juxtaposing the jarring editing and the eardrum-shattering music with the cinematography that captures the quotidian beauty of rural life. And by channelling the works of Christopher Guest, Cameron Crowe, and Aki Kaurismäki, The Gesuidouz manages to be both heartfelt and funny at the same time without overstaying its welcome.
As the frontwoman of the horror-themed punk band The Gesuidouz, Hanako has big plans for the group: she wants the band not only to make it to the lineup of the upcoming Glastonbury Festival but also to headline the entire show. However, there’s a bit of a catch: it’s a little generous to say that their music is a bit raw. In all honesty, they sound bad. But while the musicality is absent – at least initially – the artistry is there. As an awkward, introverted artist, Hanako has a deep love for Western music and cinema. These, in turn, are evident in the lyrics of The Gesuidouz’s word-salad songs (at least those that have words in them), name-checking horror film titles that go along with murderous calls to action.
In addition, her idolisation of Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain means that Hanako has a strong fascination with the 27 Club. In fact, the film’s first act shows her celebrating her 26th birthday alone. She then gazes across her topsy-turvy room, revealing a calendar that counts down the days to her turning 27. Because her plan not only involves the lofty dream of headlining Glastonbury but after, she also plans to commit suicide so she can go out on her own terms and at the same age as her musical heroes. This ideation becomes ingrained in the film’s fabric, with the defeatist remark “It doesn’t matter how they died; everybody dies in the end, right?” repeated by several characters throughout the movie.
With a year left until her deadline, Hanako makes a desperate appeal to The Gesuidouz’s band manager, who actually plans to drop the band from the label due to zero album sales. Thinking of a clever way to get rid of them gently, he offers them a last chance: relocate to a rural farm in the Japanese countryside (as far away from Tokyo as possible) to live and work there for a year while they also buckle down and focus on writing a hit song that will result in album sales.
Along with guitarist Masao, bassist Ryuzo, and drummer Santarou, Hanako leads this four-piece act of misfits to what is likely their last swing. With a beat-up van full of equipment and the unsold albums, the band settles in a remote village that even its residents refer to as a “shithole.” While they initially struggle to adjust to the place, the band eventually warms to their situation. And aided by an unlikely ally in a talking Shiba Inu named John Cage, Hanako might have finally found her muse to create a powerful anthem that would surely resonate with the right audience.
As noted, The Gesuidouz channels other critically acclaimed musical films of yesteryear, and for good reason. While shades of Almost Famous and This Is Spinal Tap can be felt, this film heavily borrows from Finnish director Aki Kaurismäki’s absurdist humour and deadpan style. It also features characters displaying eccentric behaviour and minimal emotion amidst increasingly peculiar situations. Just on its own, The Gesuidouz is already an acquired taste, so it’s understandable if the comedy doesn’t translate well and connect to the audience. These show the overt homage of Ugana’s direction and screenplay in full display. Specifically, one would be forgiven if they’d feel as though the film basically plays like a low-budget, Japanese adaptation of Leningrad Cowboys Go America, and that’s a fair assessment.
Nevertheless, The Gesuidouz’s strength lies in Natsuko’s towering performance as Hanako. Ugana smartly zeroes in on Hanako’s creative process in writing songs, sessions that at times yield only head-scratching frustrations, and others lyrical nuggets thanks to John Cage’s existentialist and philosophical musings (the dog’s lines, “’m saying we’re the flowers in the dustbin, you dumbass” and “No one dies a virgin – life fucks us all” are just golden).
Through it all, Natsuko’s portrayal of the character is agonisingly relatable. As a frustrated musician myself, I saw the film capturing the labourious songwriting process that more often than not doesn’t produce anything worth recording. Ultimately, I think of The Gesuidouz as the antithesis of Peter Jackson’s documentary of The Beatles’ Get Back sessions. There’s no glamour in the struggle to create something from scratch, and yet even the most cynical can see the beauty in the process. This makes The Gesuidouz’s journey from crowdless gigs to mosh pits all the more worth it, regardless of whether they’ve achieved their lofty goal of headlining Glastonbury, or if they’ve at least succeeded in their quest to write the greatest punk anthem in the world. And in that regard, Ugana succeeds, and then some.
