Jazz and crime have gone together in Japan ever since the musical genre was adopted by post-war teens to rebel against their more conservative parents. One of my favourite Japanese films is Kurahara Koreyoshi’s The Warped Ones (1960), in which jazz-loving hooligans embark on a runaway crime spree. It is no surprise to see the link between music and film genres continue; only recently I reviewed Kudo Eiichi’s Yokohama BJ Blues (1981), about a jazz-playing private detective, and now Between the White Key and the Black Key (2023).

December 1988: Hiroshi is a 25-year-old pianist working in a Ginza cabaret who aspires to play jazz professionally. When a drunken customer demands that he play the love theme to The Godfather – and Hiroshi obliges – he learns the unspoken rule of the Ginza music scene: that only the super-talented Minami is permitted to play that piece.

Meanwhile, the 28-year-old Minami is working in a local jazz outfit while desperately seeking a means of emigrating to the USA. He is in the steely grip of the local organised crime faction, however, one of those most prominent members is the same drunken lout obsessed with The Godfather.

And here’s the thing: Minami and Hiroshi are both played by the actor Ikematsu Sosuke, because both Minami and Hiroshi are ultimately the same character. Between the White Key and the Black Key is based on a memoir by real-life Japanese pianist Minami Hiroshi, and blends two different periods of the artist’s life in a surprising and rather bizarre fashion. The film never aggressively points this fact out, but rather leaves the viewer to work it out for themselves. That can make its earlier scenes in particular quite frustrating until the penny drops. How the viewer reacts to this odd exercise in time travel biography is really going to depend on how they respond to director Tominaga Masanori’s strange narrative choices. It is interesting, and certainly very original, but is also feels just a little bit unnecessary, and a little self-indulgent. There is a solid argument to be made that this is complexity for complexity’s sake. The film also has a tendency to present jazz without concessions for newcomers, and for some viewers this too may place a barrier in the way of fully enjoying the piece.

That noted, there is still plenty to recommend here. The cinematography has a richness that fully captures the smoky, atmosphere of 1980s Japanese nightclubs. The humour for the most part is nicely understated, while leaving room for character. The performances are, for the most part, very well judged: realistic or exaggerated where they will each best serve the narrative. Ikematsu is good. Naka Riisa and Matsuo Takashi are excellent. Takahashi Kazuya seems particularly effective as Miki, the bandleader for whom Minami plays.

There is a wealth of talent visible behind this film, and that it does not quite land as smoothly or as clearly as it should seems the result of some poorer directorial choices rather than an incapacity to achieve its goals. Even without fulfilling its bold promise – honestly, I don’t think there has been a biographical film like this before – it still brings much to recommend, and much to enjoy.