Evil Does Not Exist
For those looking for a repeat of Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s thorough examination of grief as found in his 2021 break-out effort Drive My Car, you won’t find it in the Japanese director's new film Evil Does Not Exist. What you’ll find instead is an altogether different but just as skillfully made animal that examines the instinctual desire to defend your way of life and the lives of your community — right or wrong.
As in Drive My Car, Hamaguchi is not afraid to linger on a scene (the opening image — a four-minute tracking shot showing the skyward view of a forest — is a brilliant example), but Evil Does Not Exists hides a cold urgency beneath its deliberate pacing that doesn’t reveal itself until the film’s shocking final moments. For some, Hamaguchi’s unabashedly languid style may prove to be a chore. But for others, the creeping fatalism concealed in the brushstrokes of his pristine landscapes proves nearly irresistible.
On its surface, Evil Does Not Exists operates as a low-key environmental battle between the people of a rural Japanese village and a large company from the city that wants to build a “glamping” resort on a wooded tract of land enjoyed by local residents and home to indigenous flora and fauna. When the residents learn that the project will have an environmental impact on their community and the natural balance of the land they love, there is naturally some pushback to the plan.
Our guide through this conflict is Takumi (Hitoshi Omika), a widower taking care of his young daughter Hana (Ryo Nishikawa) and who serves as a handyman for the village. He’s first seen expertly chopping firewood and then collecting water from a stream in large containers, which he does with deliberate purpose for the betterment of his friends and neighbors. Hamaguchi takes great care in emphasizing Takumi’s reliance on and deference toward the beauty and bounty of the land he lives on by pausing on these actions for much longer than most filmmakers would dare. But in doing so, he immerses us in a way of life dependent on hard work and community support.
Later, at a town meeting with representatives from the proposed resort, the townsfolk ask reasonable questions about the environmental impact the project will have on their village and the land that surrounds it, but they do so in such a respectful way that it’s almost hard to grasp for those of us raised on the kind of outrage found in American movies. This extended sequence is reminiscent of the scene in Akira Kurosawa’s High and Low in which every aspect of the hunt for a kidnapped boy is laid out in detail by representatives from each division of the police department. It’s long, but it’s thorough, procedural, and so politely executed that the company representatives end up agreeing with the town.
But what makes Evil Does Not Exist such a complete experience, complementing the richly immersive experience Hamuguchi supplies us with, are his subtly injected nods to British folk horror. One gets a crawling sense that the land itself holds influence over those who occupy it, and that it will damn those who would ever dare defile its ancient power. Don’t get me wrong, Evil Does Not Exist is not a supernatural film, but Hamaguchi’s artful borrowing of classic folk horror “vibes” adds a layer of complexity to what is already a tense and unpredictable story. It may also shed some light on the film’s disturbing and intentionally esoteric finale, but then again, maybe not.
I won’t pretend that I know exactly what it all means, but I do know that I love thought-provoking endings, and I hope that, come awards season, people are still debating just what the hell happened at the end of this beautifully puzzling film.
Grade: A-minus. Not rated, but with adult themes. Now playing at Grail Moviehouse.
(Photo: Janus Films)
