Written and directed by Ryûsuke Hamaguchi
Ryûsuke Hamaguchi’s Evil Does Not Exist, the story of a small rural community’s standoff with a company wanting to build a glamping site in their forest at the risk of their water supply, is like a beautiful run through the woods during which you twist your ankle on a rock hidden in the dead foliage.
Patient in its observation of human nature, it devotes time to quiet study of local handyman Takumi (Hitoshi Omika), watching as he collects water from the stream and chops wood, as well as glamping company reps Takahashi (Ryûji Kosaka) and Mayzumi (Ayaka Shibutani) as they get caught between the reasonable requests of the locals and the demands of big business, made to answer for decisions not their own.
All three will become central to the conflict, but in Hamaguchi’s hands, it’s far from an explosive feud that swirls around them, but instead a far more realistic portrayal of the quiet onward march of developments like this, which become inevitable once money is committed, even if concerned citizens do what they can to alter, halt, or frustrate it.
The development is merely the engine of Evil Does Not Exist, offering onward momentum as Hamaguchi considers nature both human and of the natural kind. How we relate to it, coexist with it, and then coexist with each other. How we relate to one often reflects the other, and our separation from nature and its beasts might not be all that profound, Hamaguchi seems to say.
As we gain an understanding of Takumi’s relationship with nature and how Takahashi and Mayzumi will butt into that order, Hamaguchi slowly creates an uneasy tension between all involved, even if tempers never flare in earnest.
Then, with an exacting level of detail that hides behind the slow burn direction, Evil Does Not Exist steadily builds towards its punch-in-the-gut climax, and it’s a testimony to Hamaguchi’s meticulous construction that it’s not until the finale that all the pieces combine for a stunning finish, capping off a film that mirrors the taciturn silence that defines many of the townspeople, these honest good folk who go about their life with a matter-of-factness in opposition to the glib outsiders from Tokyo.
For long swaths, the movie feels simple, rooted in long shots where characters carry out mundane tasks or carry on with mundane conversation, but Hamaguchi visual style of storytelling is playful: gliding shots looking straight up at treetops outlined against the sky, or tracking shots where his subjects sometimes hide behind grassy ridges. He even straps his camera to a car to fixate a point of view. There’s a elegance to his rhythm, and the long takes of Takumi in his element suggests a sense of connection between the two worlds. You’re not in it, – you’re of it.
This sensibility deepens what initially appears a straightforward story of corporate encroachment on natural resources to the detriment of everyone, but Hamaguchi’s empathy, insight, and careful work in assembling Evil Does Not Exist sees its elements dovetail into something striking, revealing in hindsight a drama as clear and flowing as the stream of water that is at stake.
Mikkel Frederiksen 