Full Review: Evil Does Not Exist
The environmentally-conscious Japanese film delivers its message with a soft presence, but formalistic shape
For a film as ominously titled as Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s (Happy Hour, Drive My Car) latest work, Evil Does Not Exist, it begins with a tranquil overture, humming its delicate score over an ambling tracking shot through a wintry forest, the camera pointed squarely up at the bright, overcast sky. It’s a gentle entry to a film that portends a more treacherous nature. The shot lasts for such an extended period, your mind begins to turn over the possibilities of its meaning, its length, and the guiding tones of the score. Just as you acclimate to the peaceful, ambient introduction, Hamaguchi hard cuts out of the serenity.
The environmentalism at the heart of Hamaguchi’s parable is all-encompassing; enveloping each frame of the screen as well as the subject matter of the actual plot of the film. Local handyman, Takumi (a widowed father of one, played by Hitoshi Omika), chops wood, fills jugs with water from a small stream, and sources wild wasabi leaves. It’s a practical and spiritual connection with nature, one not unfamiliar to the world of Japanese cinema. In the embrace of his daily ritual, Takumi forgets to pick up his daughter from school; which seems to be far from a rare occurrence for him. As he pulls up to the school to find her, we get a clever shot of Takumi’s car winding through the school’s parking lot in the background of the children’s game of Red Light, Green Light—the children utterly still in the foreground as Takumi’s car creeps up on them from behind. It shows the encroachment of technology on the ‘slower’ aspects of society, and the way in which modernity rapidly outpaces tradition. Further, it is one of the many shots in the film which highlights some varying degree of motion sweeping through an otherwise still environment. These shots force us to consider in what way nature is being disturbed. Whether that is literal, ecological nature, or the way in which we break up the patter of life. Action itself is somewhat destructive, breaking up what otherwise would be silent and motionless. However, the manner in which our daily lives intersect with the natural world around us is ultimately inseparable, but it’s up to us to recognize that reality before we destroy that which can never be rebuilt.
His daughter is all too familiar with Takumi’s nature, and, expecting him to be late, has already started the walk home. Takumi catches up with her and takes her for a walk through the trees, pointing out the different kinds along the way and making note of the various signs that show the ways in which the trail has been disturbed, mostly by deer moving through the area. They find a feather, which brings a spark of joy to Takumi’s daughter, Hana (Ryo Nishikawa). It is a piece of nature left behind; the small remnants of life which continues to bring delight.
Takumi is an enigmatic figure, as are the townspeople whose company he keeps. Each character in Hamaguchi’s idyllic hamlet of Mizubiki are individuals of complete independence and fierce comradery. There is no cultish behavior or homogenous expression. Every person who is afforded one of the spare lines of dialogue in the film is shown to have a unique attitude, sensibility, or interest. In fact, all of their backgrounds are disparate in nature as the town they reside in being recently settled in the fallout from World War II. This means that, despite the inherent ‘outsider’ quality of every resident, their unity in finding peace and meaning in the sacrosanct mountain village is powerful enough to quiet their differences and bind them together as something new. A testament to the spirituality found amongst nature.
The otherwise seemingly undisturbed lifestyle of the remote village comes under some potential upheaval when a developer comes in to build a glamping site in town. The project appears to be a muddled and half-assed attempt at taking advantage of some pandemic-era subsidies that are quickly going to be expiring. The glamping site, then, is being rushed into construction so that the subsidies can be taken advantage of, regardless of how scantly considered the project may be. This is discussed at length in the longest stretch of dialogue in the film, when two representatives of the development company (which is actually a talent agency, further compounding the slapdash nature of the undertaking) host a town hall, during which many temperaments and concerns are put on display to, hopefully, be sincerely considered before construction is set to formally begin.
The major point of concern is around the placement of the glamping site’s septic tank, which allows for a certain amount of seepage into the ground water, as per regulations and approval from the broader governmental body which has jurisdiction over the town. During the open forum, the village chief makes an austere, but still quite warm, plea for the sanctity of the town’s ecology. He points out that, as the stream flows through their village—from which the villagers receive their water supply—it continues to flow to other villages just like theirs. There is a necessary recognition that, should anything happen to the water in the stream as a result of their actions, it would affect the ability for those in the next village to have adequate drinking water, which would affect those further down the stream, etc.
Pointing out the interconnectivity of our actions, especially those actions which serve more self-fulfilling purposes, is the driving force of Evil Does Not Exist. Not only is the concern around the stream present and immediate, but it is further discussed how these actions cannot be reversed. Part of the modern climate debacle is if it is possible to correct the damage that has been done. And, if it is, what needs to be sacrificed to make such corrections possible. The immediacy that the glamping company feels for their project due to the disappearance of funds (some of which have already been spent), but, with all of there plates spinning and wheels in motion, they have left themselves no time, room, or concern to take stock in the externalities of their actions. They are perfectly capable of recognizing the expiration of these funds as permanent and know that their inaction will result in missed profits and, perhaps, even a small loss for the company. However, that recognition has not been extended beyond their own self-interest. And the descent being heard from the townspeople (and even some of the corporate representatives) are quelled by the indifferent disinterest of corporate leadership, too distant from Mizubiki to care for its beauty beyond that beauty’s ability to be exploited for profit.
When the two corporate liaisons, Takahashi (Ryuji Kosaka) and Mayuzumi (Ayaka Shibutani), come back to the village for a second visit to better convince the villagers of the benefit of their company’s glamping site, they are awarded the opportunity to experience life there for an afternoon while they follow Takumi along in his routine, unwilling to break up his day on their account alone. Through their time with him, Takumi repeats much of what we had seen him do early on in the film, creating a slight parabolic form for the film. Takahashi finds himself enraptured with the outdoorsy lifestyle, lavishing in the thrill of using his body to perform manual labor as opposed to all of the stasis he’s become accustomed to as a city-dweller. Mayuzumi does not take as strongly to the lifestyle as a personal ambition, but is struck by the earnestness of feeling that the locals have for their way of life, seeing how dearly they hold onto it over profit or notoriety.
During their outing, Takumi once again forgets to pick up Hana from school, and once again drives over there to find she decided to start walking back. This time, however, Hana is not so easily found. She has become taken with wandering the woods and exploring its depths, learning about the trees and searching for feathers. Her disappearance results in a town-wide manhunt, with everyone in the village feeling personal accountability in finding Hana. The motions of life are a communal experience, which includes raising a child and caring for her. Mayuzumi hurts her hand searching and stays behind at Takumi’s home. Takahashi and Takumi go out together to search deep in the woods where Takumi knows that Hana has gone before.
Eventually, the two do find her. Here, at the end of the film, the previously direct, documentarian filmmaking gives way to a more elliptical structure. Deciphering not only the meaning of the film’s final moments is as tall a task as adequately discerning what happens, and in which order. The extremity of feeling overcomes the calm rationality which had previously been the driving force. The full clarity of the Mizubiki people’s lifestyle has shown them to be level-headed beyond reproach, which was seen in the visual styling of the filmmaking and editing. Here, however, that has all been abandoned.
What we know for certain is that Hana has been gravely wounded, lying slumped over in the snow. Whether it be a flashback, a rationalization, or an interpretation of what has happened, we see a gutshot mother deer with her young one standing in front of Hana—this being given as the assumed cause of Hana’s injury. Throughout the film, the distant sound of gunshots have been heard, and discussed as the beginning of hunting season in a nearby village or prefecture. Just before this, Takumi comments to Takahashi and Mayuzumi that deer are safe and tend to avoid people in general out of fear. The lone, rare exception to this, however, is if they are mortally wounded by gunshot, but have yet to die from their injuries. Then, they can be quite hostile. Whether this explanation, so recently delivered to the two out of towners, is what Takumi rationalizes as having happened to his daughter, or if it is the truth of the situation, becomes immediately secondary. Takahashi goes to help Hana, but before he can get very far, Takumi drags him to the ground and places him in a chokehold, knocking him unconscious. Takumi then releases Takahashi from his grasp and races to collect Hana himself, carrying her body into the forest and out to get her help. Takahashi regains consciousness, stumbles for a few steps, wheezes, and collapses to the ground. Takumi’s breath is heard against a repeat of the introductory shot of the sky through the tree in a long tracking shot, this time the sky is dark. Slowly, the film fades out and ends.
It’s a cryptic ending, eschewing the docility that permeated the film up until these final moments, now bounding with a terrifying mania that seems so unfamiliar to the characters as we’ve come to know them. The gunshot that Takumi believes to have struck the deer which came to harm Hana is itself a downstream effect that he has no control over; the very thing his fellow villagers were trying to moderate in the conversations around the construction of the glamping site. The disruption to the natural order that is the presence of these outsiders seeking not acclimation to a friendly environment, but seeking to change it and mutate it into another representation of the wider change happening in Japan as a whole perhaps is what sparked Takumi to try to stop it in his tracks. Perhaps he thinks that cutting down the agents of change will help restore the natural order, and save his daughter in the process.
It’s an exciting ending to chew on as you walk out of the theater, and generally speaking, it’s an interesting and sensitive movie made with a gentle touch and a great deal of thoughtfulness. It’s message, however, lacks a modernity which makes it feel less prescient and of an era that has already lost its war. There is still much to be taken from these gorgeously composed frames and startingly edited cuts, but the sensibilities within the body of the film would have been far more resonant had it been released 10 if not 20 years ago. A stirring and effective film, but a bit behind the curve of modern environmental thinking.