A bit more laboriously meditative than director Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s previous feature, Drive My Car, Evil Does Not Exist takes place in a rural Japanese village where most folks live in humble relationship with the woods, streams, and ponds that surround them. When an outside company arrives with a proposal to build a glamping site, underlying tensions slowly begin to surface. And I do mean slowly. Despite the promise of the pastoral setting, Evil Does Not Exist sits somewhere between being a seductive work of slow cinema and a more conventional, narrative-driven drama. Although much time is spent with a local handyman (Hitoshi Omika) and his young daughter (Ryo Nishikawa), then later with two of the glamping company’s conflicted employees (Ryuji Kosaka and Ayaka Shibutani), none of the characters fully register as strongly as one would hope. After meandering with them for much of the movie, Hamaguchi suddenly ratchets things up for a climax that—while telegraphed in many ways—still feels bizarre and strangely staged. On reflection, the ending makes thematic sense (in fact it’s quite on the nose), but it still befuddles in the moment. Even so, I’m willing to concede that Evil Does Not Exist might be operating on a rhythm I couldn’t catch on an initial viewing. The project began as footage meant to accompany a musical piece by Eiko Ishibashi; along the way, with Ishibashi’s help, Hamaguchi decided to develop it into a feature. Her score is certainly a highlight—lush, even transcendent—especially as it evokes the daughter’s experience of the natural world, which is calmly captured by Hamaguchi’s patient camera. If not a cohesive whole, then, Evil Does Not Exist still has its captivating moments as a modestly scaled eco-parable.
(5/2/2024)
