Equal parts sublime, serene, and quietly devastating. I’ve been eagerly looking forward to watching Evil Does Not Exist after missing out on the screening during the Vancouver International Film Festival in October, and it was well worth the wait. While the film is noticeably shorter than Hamaguchi’s previous release, the three-hour-long Drive My Car, it’s still deliberately slow — another spectacular example of how skilled the Japanese filmmaker is at observing human nature with his restrained yet thoughtful approach. 

Evil Does Not Exist tells the tale of the detrimental ecological impact a new, capitalistic endeavour has on a small-town community and the tug-of-war it ensues, portraying mankind’s inability to peacefully exist in harmony with nature. Interestingly, the movie started as a collaboration between Hamaguchi and Eiko Ishibashi — the same composer he worked with on Drive My Car. Ishibashi approached the director to shoot footage for her live performance, resulting in a silent film titled Gift — which was the prototype for this movie. According to the press release for Evil, “In their work together, Ishibashi and Hamaguchi seek to reimagine the relationship of sound to image and narrative.” The result is truly outstanding, as the visuals and music have a symbiotic relationship.

The movie opens without dialogue for over ten minutes, allowing us to be wholly absorbed in the townsfolk’s daily routine. Hamaguchi lingers on certain shots and scenes, showcasing the patterns of these people's lives with a documentarian’s eye, all while presenting the untainted beauty of nature in rural Japan. As we hear the sound of water moving, the rustling of trees, or the crinkling of leaves, all of this works in perfect harmony with Ishibashi’s score. However, there are moments when the music cuts abruptly, which can feel quite jarring. It’s almost as if Hamaguchi is reminding us, “Hey, don’t get too comfortable; this isn’t a fairytale of beauty and calm; there are things still tainting the natural order of things that you need to remember.” 

As many are touching on, the ending is, of course, controversial. Even I had to sit on it for a while before fully understanding its brilliance (which can actually be sniffed out through a metaphor presented to us in the film’s final act). This unexpected twist in the narrative is a testament to the film’s ability to keep the audience engaged and intrigued, even after the credits roll. 

In that same press release I was given, Hamaguchi praised films from the 1990s and early 2000s with ambiguous endings, highlighting Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s work, who also happens to be his mentor. He added, “Films not only do not need to tell everything, but it’s something that cannot tell everything.” After revisiting this film, my score may hit that perfect 5/5 rating, as I’ll be able to pick up on more hints throughout. This makes me chuckle, as the same thing occurred when I revisited Cure — by Hamaguchi’s mentor himself. 

I urge you to watch this on the big screen now that it has finally come out; its uneasy serenity and meditative spell will, I hope, captivate you as much as it did me.