Omoiyari: A Song Film by Kishi Bashi

“Omoiyari: A Song Film by Kishi Bashi delves into Japanese American history and identity, but at times its discussions on race feel underdeveloped.”

Title: Omoiyari: A Song Film by Kishi Bashi (2023)
Directors: Kishi Bashi 👨🏻🇺🇸 and Justin Taylor Smith 👨🏼🇺🇸
Producers: J. J. Gerber 👨🏼🇺🇸 and Jim Angelo 👨🏼🇺🇸

Reviewed by Chris 👨🏻🇺🇸

Technical: 3.75/5

We first meet Kaoru “K” Ishibashi inside his light-filled bedroom in Athens, GA, awakening to an iPhone alarm. An idea for a song pops into his head—still in bed, K begins to sing falsetto into his phone. It’s a manicured moment that feels a far cry from a similar wake-up call for LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy in Shut Up and Play the Hits (2012), when we’re met with a sweat-stained artist who’s pantsless and hungover from the night before. Murphy swallows some Advil and shuffles out to the street so his dog can go pee.

Although this film never gets quite so authentic, it does offer some earnest and vulnerable scenes. Omoiyari: A Song Film by Kishi Bashi centers on K, a musician who records as Kishi Bashi. The film opens during the pandemic’s unprecedented rise in hate crimes against Asian Americans—an atmosphere that compels K to reconsider his identity as a Japanese American. Confessing to “viewing assimilation as a virtue” in his younger years, K sets out to educate himself, touring the Japanese American concentration camps built during World War II while writing and performing original music. Propelled by a sense of urgency, the documentary culminates with K’s first foray into activism as he plays at a protest for migrant rights.

Unfortunately, with a runtime of just 75 minutes, the film careens forward, trying to balance insight into K’s past, his present experience at the concentration camps, reflections on his own expanding identity, educational material like interviews with camp survivors, plus K’s onsite performances. Consequently, we get a fragmented glance into each, all of which feel left in varying stages of completion. But in the end, Omoiyari provides a thoughtful look into K’s life, his identity as a songwriter, his music, Japanese American incarceration, and human rights issues in the United States.

Gender: 3.5/5
Does it pass the Bechdel Test? NOPE

Several women central to K’s life feature throughout the documentary, but they have limited screen time and mostly revolve around him. We learn about Keiko, a Japanese musician who met K during her time at the Berklee College of Music. Now divorced, the couple were married for 19 years. Regrettably, Keiko’s interviews feature just once or twice. Perhaps most memorably, she describes her first impression of K and highlights his “American-ness,” conveying an initial distance between K and their shared Japanese ancestry.

The film also features Sola, Keiko and K’s daughter born in 2006. Unfortunately, Sola also has a minimal presence, depicted mostly in background shots or alongside K when he records performances from home. Perhaps another consequence of the compressed runtime, Keiko’s and Sola’s limited perspectives feel like a lost opportunity to further illuminate aspects of K’s life.

Race: 4.75/5

Omoiyari delves into Japanese American history and identity, but its discussions on race feel underdeveloped. K’s parents immigrated after WWII, forgoing a direct familial connection to the camps. Glimpses into K’s childhood create a helpful starting place regarding his identity. While born in Seattle, K’s parents raised him in predominantly white Norfolk, VA where he describes childhood experiences marked by racist bullying. These beginnings reveal an initial side of K, as a kid who felt “uncool” and just wanted to fit in. So it’s a satisfying development when viewers get to see K learn directly from camp survivors and their descendants about the routine threats and degradation incarcerees faced throughout their experience, as well as their resilience and the bravery of 442nd Regimental Combat Team. The documentary builds to K, standing next to camp survivors, protesting at a rally for the humane treatment of migrants at a detention center in Washington State. Folding together the film's plotlines, K explains to a crowd from onstage at a rally that “this is my first time performing music at a protest.”

Unfortunately, while the film provides a sense of K’s starting and ending points, I wanted to hear more on the link between his identity and musical career, the way similar insights from Japanese American contemporaries like Mitski Miyawaki, Dan “the Automator” Nakamura, and Mike Shinoda furthered my appreciation for their artistry. For example, as the documentary supercut K’s awkward early-career interviews with his later primetime performances on national talk shows, I wondered whether he ever felt like he had to “assimilate,” or play a certain role to find success on his path through the industry.

Another truncated narrative arrives when K visits the Heart Mountain concentration camp in Park County, WY and speaks with the executive director of a foundation that manages the site. Their onscreen discussion lacks nuance, as the executive director explains how the camp’s inhumane conditions “were not an intentional punishment,” and were instead the result of the United States government “acting out of fear” during an unprecedented period of war. While true, forging ahead without further discussion on the relationship between the government’s explicit racism and the camps’ dehumanizing circumstances surprised me, as it seems impossible that if only given more time, consideration, or resources, that the camps would have miraculously become humane. The vignette also misses the opportunity to draw another line to the present, one in which journalist Adam Serwer wrote of the inhumane treatment of asylum seekers at the U.S.-Mexico border, that “cruelty was the point.” Thankfully, these observations come off as anomalies in an otherwise thoughtful, race conscious, and informative film.

Bonus for Age: +0.75

Survivors interviewed during the film ranged from infants to early adults during the period of incarceration, placing them in the 80+ age bracket today. The film sets these individuals in important supporting roles and highlights their expertise and lived experience through present day interviews. In a testament to their warmth, we see survivors use their humor and joy to pierce through their grim descriptions of life in camp and its aftermath.

Mediaversity Grade: B+ 4.25/5

It can be uncomfortable and challenging to go on an identity journey, and it feels brave of K to take that on so publicly. His self-exploration comes off as genuine, and his intention—of using one's star power to educate the public about a critical piece of American history—is honorable. Despite being fragmented and a bit precious in moments, the documentary achieves what it most likely set out to do: In the moments and days after leaving the theater, it facilitated discussions among my friends and family about identity, the legacy of Japanese American incarceration, and current human rights issues. It’s an impact that perhaps approaches the highest levels of praise one could give to a documentary film.

Like Omoiyari: A Song Film by Kishi Bashi? Try these other topics portraying Japanese and Japanese American characters during World War II.

Grade: BLiNovember 21, 2023Great for: Age