About 30 minutes into “Evil Does Not Exist,” Takumi (Hitoshi Omika, “Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy”) and the residents of the Mizubiki Village are at a meeting. They’re talking to two representatives for a real-estate company from Tokyo, Takahashi (Ryûji Kosaka, “Code Name Mirage”) and Mayuzumi (Ayaka Shibutani, “Happy Hour”), whose plan is to build a glamping site in Mizubiki for city dwellers to escape the urban malaise and wind down in the comfort of nature. The issue, though, is the project’s potential environmental harm, and Takumi begins the meeting by criticizing the placement of a septic tank that threatens to pollute the village’s water supply. Takahashi’s response is painfully awkward and scant, like a twitchy child rushing through a bad presentation. Over the course of the long scene, it becomes clear that the representatives are woefully outmatched. After some grilling by other residents, the village chief (Taijirô Tamura, “Cure”) makes a good-faith final plea on behalf of everyone. He earnestly asks the company to collaborate with the residents and build the glamping site responsibly, stating: “We can’t let dirty water flow downstream just for quick profits.”
It’s the kind of direct and earnest plea to which anyone, in an ideal world, would heed. It’s biting and sincere, touching the core of how greed leads the world. The line is political, philosophical and poetic, all rolled into one. For director Ryûsuke Hamaguchi (“Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy”) though, there might as well be no distinction between the three. “Evil Does Not Exist” is the latest gift from the Japanese powerhouse and follows up his audacious “Drive My Car.” But where “Drive My Car” worked in veiled allegory and symbolism to dissect the mechanisms of human connection, “Evil Does Not Exist” is fable-like: thinner and quieter, but not lacking in thematic weight.
“Evil Does Not Exist” essentially works as a silent film before that crucial scene with the representatives. Hamaguchi opens the film with a series of low-angle shots tracking trees in the winter. We’re staring up at a faint blue sky, indicating that it might be dusk or dawn. Some branches overhead look flimsy, liable to break off at a gust of wind. Others look fully nourished, bearing green leaves ready to take over the landscape. The scenery is the epitome of liminality, existing in the chasm between life and death, hope and despair. Playing over the visuals, Eiko Ishibashi’s (“Drive My Car”) ethereal score captivates the ears. Her strings ring nostalgic at first — loving and longing — but near the end, Ishibashi infuses a sense of melancholy and drama. Altogether, Hamaguchi sets a warm but uncomfortable tone in the first two minutes.
By the time the shots of foliage end, Hamaguchi has inverted the film. Now, the soundscape is rather innocuous, composed of diegetic ambient noises without a score. We see static shots of Takumi, the main protagonist and all-around handyman of Mikuzibi Village, chopping down lumber at his home, grabbing spring water downstream and picking up his daughter from school. For the entire first act, Hamaguchi switches between those musical interludes and these human moments that seemingly serve no plot purpose.
This is all part of the filmic language that Hamaguchi gradually develops in the film. “Evil Does Not Exist” settles us into the rhythm and flow of Mizubiki village through scenery and silence. By intercutting between the forest and Takumi’s banal routine, Hamaguchi subliminally strengthens the intimate relationship that the residents have with nature. On another level, he’s endearing us to the quasi-socialist utopia of the village. Mizubiki is a quaint place where people are happily interdependent and harmonious with each other, where money only matters as a transactional tool, not as a stand-in for one’s social value.
The charm of the village is infectious, but Hamaguchi isn’t playing the part of an anthropologist, gawking and admiring a different lifestyle. Everything he shows is deliberately in service of the plot, even if it’s in a roundabout way. In the meandering 30 minutes of world-building, he’s also subtly setting up the importance of that meeting. Through silent observation, we come to understand the threat that a glamping site would pose to the environment and these people’s way of life. The plotless opening act allows us to imagine how such a site would disrupt the balance of nature and technology that the village has cultivated, making that long meeting profound rather than didactic.
Hamaguchi’s formal control extends beyond the film’s editing and patience: He is narratively working with gold. It’s awfully tempting to think of the story in terms of dichotomies, like good vs. evil, corporate vs. local — the title and opening scene invite it. But Hamaguchi writes “Evil Does Not Exist” in layers. In the second act — after that meeting — he fleshes out the representatives, Takahashi and Mayuzumi (the supposed antagonists of the film). The scene takes place in a car where the two of them are driving back to the village. Like Takumi’s character, Hamaguchi allows the two to be human and exist in their own space. Takahashi and Mayuzumi casually talk about their work and love lives, their future and hopes. The moment is so rich with little details that it feels like the audience is eavesdropping. By the time the duo arrive at the village, this fable-like tale of two warring interests transitions into a touching one about human kindness and empathy, about understanding that people have to make do.
It’s this kind of introspection and perspective switch that makes “Evil Does Not Exist” more than the sum of its simple and slow parts. With every scene, Hamaguchi extends the meaning and possibilities of his narrative. By the third act, he’s so provocative that he shakes up everything that we learn in the first and second act — to such a degree that I’m still trying to piece it together. It’s his way of testing the audience and the medium, of showing his creative and bold storytelling. The film is Hamaguchi’s statement piece, and whether evil does or does not exist, I’m just glad this film does.
Daily Arts Writer Ben Luu can be reached at benllv@umich.edu.
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