In nature, there’s no such thing as evil. There’s the ecosystem with predator and prey, but while there are behaviors that some groups would define within a power dynamic, it’s atypical for the natural world to engage in behavior humans would call “evil.” Evil is a human concept, shaped by the shadows of the things we don’t understand, forged into bladed weapons that corrupt and inspire pain to be put to others. For whatever reason we can justify within ourselves, humans cause a disproportionate amount of pain versus joy history bleeding from the lives taken for faith or pride, the true horrors being the violence done in the name of that which we don’t know and is yet to be revealed. But not in nature. Nature has its cycles, its time of replenishment and depletion. While there is balance, there is no degradation of the ecosystem. Exploring the philosophical concept of ecological balance and capitalistic corruption is writer/director Ryûsuke Hamaguchi (Drive My Car; Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy) with his latest project, Evil Does Not Exist (悪は存在しない), a drama whose simple concept belies a deeper meditation on harmony and the indifference of knowing corruption.
Ryô Nishikawa as Hana in EVIL DOES NOT EXIST. Photo courtesy of Sideshow/Janus Films.
The small village of Mizubiki is filled with simple people who utilize the land as much as possible for everything they might need. A local chef uses the water from the natural springs to cook her noodles, the village chief uses discarded feathers as quills or tools for musical instruments, and all use the trees for fire wood (to name a few). However, when a company buys property in order to establish a glamping business so that Tokyo residents can find a break from city life, the disinterest in protecting the land is only the beginning of strife between the organization and the incumbent peoples.
Hamaguchi ties the ideas of the film directly into the cinematography, cluing audiences in from the start how observational the whole of Evil will be. With a mixture of scoring by composer Eiko Ishibashi (Drive My Car) and natural sounds (handled by Izumi Matsuno), the camera stares upward, slowly moving like a leaf down a stream. We see blue sky pierced by the green and brown of the trees, the varying shape of the branches appearing like a complex web of nerves, signifying the intricate and interlocked essence of nature. It’s a beautiful scene, entirely serene … if not for the score which infuses the sequence with a touch of dread and disquiet. Due to the staging, there’s a sense of smallness, some branches far away, others close up, almost as if we are the thing that is floating, bodiless, through this system. If not for the higher octaves on the strings, the sustained notes, the score would be dreamlike, inspiring one toward contemplation of their connection to all things. Then, without warning, the scene and score stop, a transition made abruptly, as if snapping us out of a dream, waking us to what is versus what could be. It’s in this moment that the audience is introduced to a young girl and, through her, her father, Takumi (Hitoshi Omika), creating the connection between nature and humanity.
L-R: Ayaka Shibutani as Mayuzumi and Ryûji Kosaka as Takahashi in EVIL DOES NOT EXIST. Photo courtesy of Sideshow/Janus Films.
The cinematography is deliberately and precisely inconsistent through much of the film, which is to say that Yoshio Kitagawa (Happy Hour) adapts the technique based on the needs of the scene. In the opening, the camera is still while the trees pass us by. There’s a sensation of movement throughout the frame, but the camera itself doesn’t move. When the hard transition happens, the camera is placed at the height of the little girl, Hana (Ryô Nishikawa), who stands up into frame, continuing the approach used before. Then it shifts again, with the camera at a distance to Hana as she wanders into the forest, the snow-covered ground and surrounding wooded area enveloping her as she ventures deeper in. She moves not with concern or apprehension, but with wonder, like a wanderer in in perpetual awe as they tread land they know well. Again, the camera is still, Hana’s movements the only activity we see. For the rest of the film, the majority of the cinematography will be like this with the camera locked in place, the majority of changes in angle coming with cuts, the occasional pan utilized when an edit might be too distracting from the action. The lack of camera motion conveys a sense of watching, of observing as things are, like one might in a narrative documentary, capturing activity of the inhabitants of an area without judgement. Many of the shots of characters’ travels are designed for distance, so that as much of the Japanese landscape can be seen as possible, including distance mountain ranges. On at least two occasions, the camera is attached to the back of the car, enabling the audience to observe where we’ve been with a more discerning eye — a technique that’s particularly interesting regarding what it conveys about the people in frame when the car stops. To this end, the narrative designed by Hamaguchi slowly transforms from the peaceful capturing of moments as Takumi carefully engages with Earth and fellow members of his community into the potential hazard of outsider incorporation. This is where Evil gets particularly interesting and reveals itself to be closely tied in execution to a nature documentary.
Without pivoting into spoiler territory, the whole of Evil feels as if it can be summed up from a quote by Plato, “The price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men.” Up until the introduction of the two glamping representatives, Takahashi (Ryûji Kosaka) and Mayuzumi (Ayaka Shibutani), Hamaguchi may as well be documenting life in Mizubiki. With the arrival of the two into the story by way of a community meeting in which they present the company’s business and take on questions, Evil shifts as the woefully underprepared reps get positively pounded, the successfulness of the business being the last thing on the mind of the community due to the potential dangers it poses. Intentionally, Hamaguchi creates situations in which the reps must make a choice as to whether to recommend delaying or shutting down the project or trying to woo the community. The reps, having become aware of the project’s weaknesses and the villagers’ knowledge, are firmly in the middle of the conflict that exists between the glamping company which prefers fast money over sustainability and the villagers whose only concern is the protection of the land and maintaining its harmony. From the carefully paced first 30 minutes, we understand what Takumi and his fellows believe, so it really comes down to what Takahashi and Mayuzumi do with the information they’ve gained, how their bosses respond, and what the two reps do in the wake of the reaction. Do you proceed because you’ve been given a directive? Do you proceed because you’re doing your job? Do you argue or quit? Each of the choices correlates to a specific intrinsic need that ends up defining each character profoundly. At this moment, a metaphorical crossroads appears and, from their choices, a series of events begin that can be assigned morality within a system governed by humans though irrelevant to the laws of nature. To that end, Evil makes itself clear as a microcosmic exploration of the significance of conservation and the need for balance, no matter where human feet tread. To disregard the natural order is to threaten everything, and peace, balance, must be maintained for all to prosper. The weight of what Hamaguchi accomplishes hits the audience like a surprise strike in the execution.
Hitoshi Omika as Takumi in EVIL DOES NOT EXIST. Photo courtesy of Sideshow/Janus Films.
The structure and execution of Evil Does Not Exist is going to leave some audiences desiring something other than what we’re given. Part of that, I suspect, will have to do with expectations. That between the title and the communal conflict, something a bit more specific or in-depth will occur, something more traditional in the setup and climax. But there’s very little that’s traditional about Evil. There’s no unnecessary dialogue from the villagers of Mizubiki, which requires the audience to observe everything the actors do to draw out meaning. Rather, the wasted breath, if you will, comes from the glamping reps, who use words like disposable currency. To that end, if you find yourself watching the credits roll and wondering what the hell played out before you, consider the quote by Plato alongside the documentary-esque cinematography and the answer will reveal itself. How satisfactory that may be, well, that’s up to the beholder.
Screening during Atlanta Film Festival 2024.
In NYC/Los Angeles May 3rd, 2024.
For more information, head to the official ATLFF 2024 Evil Does Not Exist webpage.
Final Score: 4 out of 5.
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Categories: Films To Watch, In Theaters, Recommendation, Reviews
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