REVIEW: ‘Evil Does Not Exist’ Is An Exercise In Tension

Ryusuke Hamaguchi plants the seed of dread with melancholic immediacy in his latest, the haunting Evil Does Not Exist. Backed by the mournful overture from composer Eiko Ishibashi, we float down a river, our eyes through the camera lens taking in the treetops we list under. Hamaguchi is a patient filmmaker. This is evident in his most recent works, including the Oscar-winning Drive My Car, but he pushes the limits here. Our all-powerful third party is given voice as Hamaguchi seeks the truth of nature and our relationship to it.

Takumi (Hitoshi Omika) lives with his young daughter, Hana (Ryo Nishikawa), in the rural village of Mizubiki. The “jack-of-all-trades” in town, the residents rely on Takumi’s wilderness knowledge while he takes on odd jobs here and there. But he isn’t the first set of eyes we meet. Instead, it’s Hana’s inquisitive face that first fills the frame as she peers forward. From the vibrancy of her introduction, the blues and yellows of her winter outfit standing stark against the untouched white of snow, we can’t shake the ominous tension. Evil Does Not Exist commits itself to the wills of nature and society’s effects on it. And, in a pivotal early moment, it is clear that the young are often the most vulnerable.

The main throughline of the story arrives when two representatives arrive in town with plans for a new glamping project. The toils of urban gentrification are notable, as the representatives, Takahashi (Ryuji Kosaka) and Mayuzumi (Ayaka Shibutani), face backlash from residents. Everything from the position of the septic tank to the amount of personnel on staff is rightfully called into question. Takahashi drinks from a water bottle while residents argue their case on how important it is to purify their water. Despite the patience of the story and the early melancholy that settles into the film’s bones, there’s no denying the anger that simmers throughout.

The town hall sequence where the residents speak to Takahashi and Mayuzumi is beautifully blocked and directed. Hamaguchi, cinematographer Yoshio Kitagawa, and co-editor Azusa Yamazaki keep the flow energized yet naturalistic. But it’s how the narrative evolves throughout this one storyline where the most significant intrigue lies. From the film’s start, the story possesses an eerie rhythm that works in dissonance with the imagery. It’s shot like a horror film. The film lines itself with rough edges, from jump cuts and hard edits to framing Takumi and Hana in the distance as prowling onlookers.

Evil Does Not Exist is a film consumed by details. There’s the blood splatter on the dead leaves of trees and the gunshots in the distance we hear when Hana is walking home from school. There’s the gutshot fawn and the conversation about how deer only turn violent when injured and protecting their young. Despite all Takumi and other residents do to maintain the balance of life in their village, there’s no escaping the fact that there’s a disease infecting the land. It isn’t a reach to see Takahashi and Mayuzumi and the glamping project they represent as the virus.

Evil Does Not Exist is unlike Hamaguchi’s previous films in many ways. A distinct chill from the rural setting to the detachment permeates throughout. Hamaguchi finds isolation through car rides reminiscent of Abbas Kiarostami (The Taste of Cherry, Close-Up), another master of capturing emotion through driving. But even here, there’s a shift in style. Everything exists in a bubble. Drives take on a grander, omnipresent perspective. Are we the third person in the car or the vehicle itself?

It all comes down to the opening moments, the notes of requiem that Ishibashi conjures. In many ways, the film is a march of death, as it stumbles into its electrifying third act that is dizzy with sensory overload. While the film struggles to maintain momentum in moments, the script by Hamaguchi is probably better suited to a short film than a full-length feature; it undoubtedly keeps us enraptured. We are caught in this slow onslaught as characters move from seeming normal to feral behavior from once stoic characters.

The natural world reacts to trauma in Evil Does Not Exist. It’s fitting, considering the ecological thriller backing the story. But part of what makes the film so hypnotic is how Hamaguchi captures the bruised underbelly of this world with delicacy and almost too much of a sleight hand. We know all too well that evil does exist in this world, man-made and vitally resistant to listening to the notes of the world that we’re burning. Hamaguchi captures that withering despair through tired performances and frames with empty space, decaying in plain view.

Evil Does Not Exist might not be Hamaguchi’s best film, but it’s a startling entry into his already prominent filmography. With greater anger than we’ve seen in his scripts, the filmmaker weaves a mournful plea by giving nature a voice and rendering his human characters helpless against change. Aided tremendously by Ishibashi’s herculean work, the notes of this story will linger with you.

Evil Does Not Exist is out now in theaters.