Yokohama BJ Blues (1981) Grim Satire of America’s influence on Japan

TThe 1980s was an odd era for Japanese cinema, caught between the end of one golden generation and the rise of another. That’s not to say nothing of note was produced—directors like Shōhei Imamura and Akira Kurosawa were still working, albeit sporadically, and a new generation was on the rise. However, the true triumphs of the decade came from anime, with Hayao Miyazaki charging to global prominence. Yet there’s a unique joy in this period being less explored than the decades before and after; it leaves a sense of discovery, something increasingly rare in an age where everything feels accessible at the click of a button. Enter Radiance Films, a standout UK label dedicated to unearthing cinema gems. One of their latest releases, Yokohama BJ Blues (1981), directed by Eiichirō Kudō, showcases a director better known for Yakuza and Jidaigeki films tackling a deconstructed neo-noir in the vein of Raymond Chandler.

Like any good, tricksy neo-noir, attempting to unravel the plot on first viewing is a futile exercise—this kind of story truly takes shape once the dust has settled. Instead of a linear A-to-B-to-C plot, the film is best approached through highlighting its key details and character dynamics. BJ (Yūsaku Matsuda) is a middling blues club singer in Yokohama so broke he walks everywhere, he’s hired by a woman to find her missing son. BJ’s best friend, a police officer, becomes entangled with a crime syndicate ominously referred to as “the family”—distinct from the traditional Yakuza per the Radiance subtitles. After his friend is killed, BJ is savagely beaten by a young police officer attempting to force a confession out of him. Meanwhile, the widow of the deceased officer lingers in the background, and BJ himself becomes the target of an unseen hitman. Among the chaos is Ali, a reclusive player who can only be found by visiting his optician in one of the film’s stranger moments. There is also a LGBT biker gang and broader implications of bisexuality within this fringe community, something which extends to BJ himself – a bold choice for a film produced in such a heteronormative and homogenised society.

If you’ve seen Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye (which this is alledgely a very loose remake of), Inherent Vice, or The Big Lebowski, you’ll recognise the structure—BJ stumbles through a series of interactions while uncovering links between the missing son, his friend’s death, and the forces against him. Whether you embrace the chaotic storytelling or find it a slog depends entirely on your tolerance for narrative ambiguity. Of the aforementioned references, Paul Thomas Anderson’s Inherent Vice is the closest spiritual match, as Kudō similarly avoids explaining much of anything. Suggestion and open-endedness are the rules of Yokohama BJ Blues, add to that an overall grim tone and the status as a challenging watch is furthered ever more.

Grime is the perfect word to summarise the film’s world, set in the nocturnal economy of dive bars, nightclubs, and their unsung ancillary professions. This is a Japan shaped by America’s less than savoury influences, stripped of Seijun Suzuki’s stylish élan and replaced with the grim nihilism found in Nagisa Ōshima’s 1960s New Wave, a world away from the glamour of the typical depictions of 1980s decadence. Let’s be honest, how many of those other movies have a scene where a gang boss is looking for stolen toilet paper while sat on the toilet? Yokohama BJ Blues depicts an unsympathetic Japan: dirty streets, empty blues clubs, and casual promiscuity. The latter illustrated neatly when BJ pulls out a clump of keys to choose a place to sleep, and he ends up at a prostitute’s flat while she rests after her latest client. There’s also a very prolonged and unsexy sex scene in that mix too.

Though less overtly nihilistic than Ōshima’s work, the film occupies a similar headspace. Titles like Night and Fog in Japan and Cruel Story of Youth wrestle with the spectre of foreign influence, while Yokohama BJ Blues reflects on it with the benefit of hindsight. The subtle choice to refer to the crime syndicate as “the family” instead of a Yakuza clan hints at this, as does the unflattering depiction of the police. A young officer’s brutal beating of BJ in plain sight in broad daylight in a police station is a pointed critique, almost satirising the hyper-violent police archetypes prominent in American pop culture at the time.

The influences on this Radiance release are vast, spanning Italy’s “Years of Lead,” grounded Hong Kong crime cinema, Raymond Chandler’s hardboiled detective fiction, and even the gritty realism of The French Connection (1971) or The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973). Adding to its uniqueness is the fact that it’s a Toei Central Film, a subsidiary of Toei Studios known for pink films and independent titles. Japan remains a studio-driven industry, and indie films outside of extra, subversive genre titles are rare – even at the time. Everything is produced within the monolithic studio system, even the films intended optioned to get younger bums on seats – see the whole pinky movement. This was a bold swing by Toei Central Film, a crime/mystery film with all the romanticism scrubbed away. This European- and American-styled indie influenced production makes for a fascinating rediscovery, however, like the many touchstones I’ve dropped, the pacing, muted colour palette, and oppressive tone will divide the potential audience.

Among the extras of this very late 2024 Radiance release are interviews with star Mari Hemmi, screenwriter Shoichi Maruyama and writer and Yokohama expert Toru Sano who both looks at the film and the locations. There is also new writing by Dimitri Ianni on Toei Central Film, a subsidiary of Toei studios famed for releasing Pink Films and independent productions such as Yokohama BJ Blues and an archival review.

ROB’S ARCHIVE – YOKOHAMA BJ BLUES