Patience is not merely a virtue when it comes to viewing Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s work; it’s a demand, a requirement he places upon the audience when they enter in to one of his worlds, whether it’s the tentatively building intrigue of his Vertigo riff, Asako I & II, the drawn out car rides and conversations that make up his award-winning Drive My Car, or the intersecting lives of four female friends in his sprawling, over five-hour-long drama Happy Hour. Despite the massive runtimes of those latter two films in particular, the need for patience in Hamaguchi’s movies isn’t necessarily tied to the requirement to sit in front of the screen for a lengthy period; the Japanese filmmaker’s newest movie, Evil Does Not Exist, clocks in at under two hours, but it’s quiet and delicate construction is evident from the outset (it’s telling that Hamaguchi began the film with the intention of making it a 30 minute short, only to find it getting longer during production, enough to justify pivoting to creating a feature). The opening credits unfold over a long, nearly five minute pan looking up toward a sky framed by tree branches, Eiko Ishibashi’s luscious string-based score (gorgeous yet mournful, and downright ominous when Hamaguchi throughout the film suddenly cuts it off) setting the tone before we’ve even glimpsed a human being (her enchanting music is immediately the best film score of the year). Another probable five minutes (it could be longer, it could be shorter; time always becomes slippery once you’re immersed in the daily routines of a Hamaguchi character) unfolds after we cut to Takumi (Hitoshi Omika), who is chopping firewood in a forest, the chilly atmosphere exemplified by the remnants of snow on the ground and the barren trees surrounding him. After he finishes neatly piling the chopped wood outside the cabin, he moves to a nearby stream to methodically ladle water into jugs, which he then carries back and forth to the car of a colleague who joins him, Hasegawa (Takuma Nagao), the co-owner of a udon restaurant in the nearby village of Mizubiki. Their movements are the only motions punctuating the stillness, until a jarring noise pierces the air: a gunshot from distant deer hunters. On the turn of a dime, the once peaceful natural world transforms into a sinister, and even threatening, place. Just as suddenly, Takumi remembers he has to dash off; he may be a jack-of-all-trades, as he’s referred as a little later, but he’s forgotten to pick up his young daughter Hana (Ryo Nishikawa) from preschool again.
Hamaguchi accomplishes volumes in this opening sequence: setting the film’s gradual pace (familiar terrain for Hamaguchi devotees, an endurance test for others that will determine what they take away from the rest of the movie), familiarizing the viewer with the lifestyle and routines of Mizubiki’s residents, introducing us to the protagonist and his personality, job, and family situation, and establishing the push-and-pull between nature and humanity that will be the thread that ties all of Evil Does Not Exist together. The latter becomes even more glaring when the action moves from expansive wooded exteriors to a stuffy conference room, where two representatives— Takahashi (Ryuji Kosaka) and Mayuzumi (Ayaka Shibutani)— from a talent agency looking to open a glamping business upstream host a meeting to hear concerns from residents. Almost immediately, the reps realize they are not only out of their depth, but powerless to do anything about it: namely, that the septic tank for the proposed site isn’t large enough to handle the resort when it operates at capacity, leading sewage to leak into the groundwater and wash downstream. The community’s pristine ecosystem is at stake, but so is the company’s opportunity to cash in on lucrative pandemic subsidies, which they will miss out on if they don’t close the deal within a month’s time.
That Evil Does Not Exist (the title a misnomer, considering how doom-laden this thing is) lays out such obvious themes as corporate greed and nature’s vengeance on humanity’s persistent ravaging of its resources (the brutal culmination of which is heavily foreshadowed in a conversation about deer between Takumi and Takahashi) but still manages to veer into utterly surprising territory just points to Hamaguchi’s peerless ability to craft films that place patient observations of complex characters above concrete plot— never judging their actions, and rarely explaining them. An eco-fable of this sort is a stark departure from Hamaguchi’s previous filmography, as is the jolt at the end that shocks us out of its gentle rhythms. And yet, the subjects he thrives on as a filmmaker are still present, if slightly buried. Grief, loss, and loneliness bond Takumi and Takahashi, even if they don’t recognize it: family photos depicting a wife who’s no longer there adorn Takumi’s cabin, while, during a lengthy car ride into Mizubiki with his family (a scene that’s sure to please the resident Drive My Car stans), Takahashi reveals his yearning for not only a wife, but a new life and career altogether. Witnessing Takumi’s lifestyle, which requires one to be close bedfellows with nature, seems to awaken some primitive urge nestled deep inside him, lain dormant by years circling the superficial entertainment industry, situated in an urban environment. But at what cost do we engage with that side of ourselves, and how genuine is our desire to do so? We don’t get the opportunity to discover whether or not Takahashi’s interest in the glamping site is merely a passing fancy, but Kosaka adeptly maneuvers around both his earnestness and his awkwardness. As Takumi, Omika is particularly impressive, maintaining a firm handle both on his characters’ physicality and his emotions. But as hard as he is to crack, his cracks are visible, primarily taking the shape of Hana, who isn’t physically present in the film as often as its marketing implies, and yet is the key to unlocking it regardless.
With a mere shift in the tone of the soundscape, or a tilt of the camera from the human level to that of the earth, looking upward, disorienting, Hamaguchi effortlessly shifts back-and-forth between respect and reverence for nature’s majesty (look no further than an early scene in which Takumi walks Hana home from school, quizzing her on the plants and animals in the area) and fear of it. That making such a hard left turn from Drive My Car— the 2021 drama that finally thrust Hamaguchi into the international consciousness— has thus far resulted in a largely confused and hesitant response from the general public (despite wide critical acclaim) probably shouldn’t be too surprising, but it is disappointing. Evil Does Not Exist is another enthralling, soul-shaking entry into the rich filmography of one of the most thought-provoking filmmakers working in the world today, one that I have the feeling contains endless nuggets lurking in its forests waiting to be uncovered with study and subsequent viewings— for those who possess the patience and fortitude to go looking for them.
Evil Does Not Exist is now playing in select theaters. Runtime: 106 minutes.
Katie at the Movies 