Attempting to properly tell a story that fully encapsulates our ecological moment is a daunting task. Say what you will about Paul Schrader’s First Reformed – I find its ideas fully cooked but its narrative underwhelming – that’s really the only contemporary movie that captured the all-encompassing terror about the state of our planet. It’s tough to make a feature that can run on that energy for a hundred minutes. Ryusuke Hamaguchi takes a more delicate approach here, focusing on the macro. A small village outside Tokyo lives in harmony with its ecosystem, with few if any borders between the natural world and the population’s lives. Their respect for nature is second nature, and the world around them is never taken for granted. When locals hear that a talent agency is thinking of setting up a glamping site nearby, they understandably have many questions about this business’s intentions.
This is Hamaguchi’s first film since 2021’s Drive My Car, the crossover hit that made him an internationally beloved filmmaker and an Oscar nominee for Best Director. Spiritually, his narratives descend from the late Taiwanese master, Edward Yang, who was another expert of making intimate tales that could be extrapolated into larger treatises on the human condition. The scale is shrunken with this film. The screenplay doesn’t spark with the same dramatic verbosity, but Hamaguchi is still working within the same milieu. His characters, as emotionally restrained as any creation of Victorian literature, bristle against the many stresses and entanglements of their everyday lives. When emotions finally do bubble over, the fierce climax is never quite what we expect.
Our main character is Takumi (Histoshi Omika), a widower and longtime resident of the village. He stays employed by working a variety of odd jobs that the community depends on him to perform. His daughter, Hana (Ryo Nishikawa), is a quiet and free-spirited young girl who’s trusted to traverse the woods and landscapes by herself. Takumi’s life is quiet but labor intensive. He’s constantly chopping wood or collecting spring water for the local udon noodle shop (the fresh water heightens the flavor of the broth). His work is tedious and long, unglamorous. Another reason why the intrusion of this glamping site feels like such an affront. The talent agency running it arrives with promises of tourists who will help local businesses, but Takumi and the other locals know that it will only disrupt the perfect balance of their lives.
In a long scene in the middle of the film, two representatives for the talent agency (Ryuji Kosaka and Ayake Shibutani) take on the slings and arrows of the angry villagers as they present – in a restrained, organized, but adamant way – all the reasons why this project is a mistake for their community. The two reps are beyond ignorant of the region’s ecosystem, and can do nothing but reply to their vitriol with unsatisfying platitudes and statements of side-stepped accountability. Their boss suggests that the way to win over the town is to first connect with Takumi, the well-respected, all-knowing town leader. As they make their move, Takumi measures them cautiously. Takumi keeps his feelings close to vest; he’s open about disliking their plans but leaves open the slightest possibility that he could be convinced.
Evil Does Not Exist then becomes a fable about the incompatibility of nature and commerce. Even when both sides attempt to extend olive branches, the implausibility of their collaboration becomes more and more obvious. The delicate care that Hamaguchi takes with each scene builds a steady tension that carefully warns us of trouble to come while cleverly concealing whatever that trouble may end up being. The movie’s final scene is a masterful execution of metaphor as narrative, perfectly coalescing the movie’s righteous political messaging with the fear and resentment of its characters. It further establishes Hamaguchi as a truly singular voice – alongside the likes of Alice Rohrwacher – whose movies perform beyond the well-placed tenets of cinematic language.
On top of it all, it’s a stunningly made film. Cinematographer Yoshio Kitagawa uses the gorgeous landscapes to his advantage, making the natural world a character of its own. Japanese singer-songwriter Eiko Ishibashi composes the movie’s score which is equally lush and discordant, capturing the tranquility of the space while also casting glimpses toward the arrival of oncoming danger. Hamaguchi’s deliberate style – an almost stubborn focus on day-to-day trivialities – could be prententious in the wrong hands. It’s his innate understanding of his characters and the human condition that make his movies different than other, more rigid formalists. His respect for framing is what makes his films transfixing but its his deft screenwriting that makes his movies really special. And Evil Does Not Exist is very special.
Written and Directed by Ryusuke Hamaguchi