They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but leave it to artist Ryûsuke Hamaguchi to spin a thousand more. His latest film Evil Does Not Exist had my synapses firing from the get-go with its inky, endlessly atmospheric opening shots drifting through an ancient forest primeval. Overhead branches wove a canopy dark as midnight, yet sun’s rays sliced between trunks like searching fingers, illuminating flecks of gold in the dark soil below. I felt tiny, insignificant – yet curiously close to creation itself.
The hush was broken only by birdsong and a haunting score that stirred forests deep in my soul. Was this peace, or foreboding? I had no clue what to expect from this modern master, but I knew in my gut it’d be memorable. After wowing critics with last year’s Drive My Car, this man clearly knows a thing or two about soaking viewers in cerebral cinematic wetworks.
So when developers set their sights on carving a slice of Easy Street outta this tranquil woodland, tensions were bound to flare. Hamaguchi’s no stranger to wrestling weighty themes like progress vs. tradition to the dramatic mat, and I could sense this delicate balance would not hold. What began as a subtle tone poem seemed poised to ignite, though exactly how and why remained shrouded in shadow. One thing’s for sure – this director won’t spell things out for you. But in his hands, that’s half the thrill.
A Tranquil Refuge Under Threat
Nestled amongst towering evergreens flows a quiet stream, lifeblood to the tight-knit souls who call the remote Mizubiki village home. Here Takumi ekes out a humble living, his young daughter Hana bringing smiles as they learn the lush forest’s subtle songs. But beyond the boughs looms a threat – the shadow of “progress” fast emerging from Tokyo’s steel and stone.
Word arrives that corporate wolfhounds sniff out Mizubiki’s pastoral charm as perfect prey. Their scheme? “Glamping” – tricking cityfolk with faux frontiersmanship, stealing the village’s solace. At the helm stand Takahashi and Mayuzumi, masters of smarmy smiles and prepackaged PR spins. During a tense town hall, the well-heeled wheeler-dealers downplay docking their “luxury campsite” upstream, careless of pollution’s poisonous payload.
The simple souls of Mizubiki see clearer. For them, the forest’s fate is their own, its trails the tender threads linking their tight-knit lives. Their lone voice of reason, handyman Takumi knows destroying the land spells doom for his daughter’s future. Though polite in protest, the villagers’ passions run deep as their roots – this patch of paradise must be preserved, its purity protected from parvenu passions.
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As tensions escalate, even Takahashi and Mayuzumi sense their slick schemes are sinking, ethics eroded by bosses hungry for fast fortune. But compromises seem closes as caring starts seeping through corporate callouses. Just when hope flickers that harmony may emerge, however, darkness descends with a fateful twist that rocks this refuge to its core.
In this remote hamlet, humanity’s greatest battles may be nature’s – and its smallest voices carry the heaviest weight. Can simple souls like Takumi and Hana truly defend their dream from destruction’s drooling jaws?
When “Progress” Means Loss
The serenity of Mizubiki Village hangs in delicate balance. Nestled deep in towering evergreens, its folks eke out a simple life in rhythm with the forest’s subtle songs. But beyond the boughs, “progress” comes crashing in – and director Ryusuke Hamaguchi ain’t havin’ it. See, he knows what “development” means for places like this: the destruction of what makes ’em special.
In Evil Doesn’t Exist, Hamaguchi gives us the lush woods like we ain’t never seen ’em. Sweeping shots linger on rustling branches and trickling streams, immersing you in the intertwining souls of man and nature. Then some slick-talkin’ Tokyo hustlers roll in hawking “glamping,” disguising their plunder as a gift. But the village souls see clearer – this patch of paradise can’t be paved over without dispersing their tight-knit lives like scattering leaves.
Through it all, handyman Takumi keeps his head down, focused on teachin’ his daughter the subtle songs that’ll guide her. But you can feel the currents shifting beneath his steady stride, stirring grief from a recent loss while threatening a whole new kind’a suffering. When the meeting gets heated, tensions rise like a warning wind – these simple folks won’t go down without a fight for the land and lives they know.
Meanwhile, even the corporate reps start questionin’ their mission as empathy cracks through callouses. But their bosses just want fast profit, subsidies be damned. And so the rift widens between those tied to tradition, and outsiders blinded by dollar signs and romanticized notions of “getting away from it all.” When violence strikes, it’s a gut punch – because by then, you know these souls truly got no other place to call home.
In the end, Hamaguchi says plenty without speechifying. He lets the verdant vistas and devoted defenders do the talking, quietly insisting that development always demands destruction. Progress means lost livelihoods, severed ties to history and habitat. And evil don’t need to exist at all for harm to come – just humanity’s craving for capital and unwillingness to heed the land and lives they disrupt. When a way of life’s seen as an obstacle instead’a treasure, “advancement” spells nothing but agony instead’a beauty. The forests cry it out if you give ’em a chance.
Ryusuke Hamaguchi crafts visual poetry in Evil Does Not Exist
This film is a feast for the eyes. Director Ryusuke Hamaguchi and cinematographer Yoshio Kitagawa imbue every frame with artistic flair and thematic resonance. They wield the camera like a paintbrush, using natural landscapes and immersive long takes to enhance the story in powerful ways.
Right from the haunting opening shots, gliding languidly through misty forests, you can see this is no ordinary film. As trees swim overhead in moody greens and browns, Ishibashi’s melancholy score swirling beneath, a pensive mood descends. But it’s just the start of the visual storytelling.
Later, sweeping panoramas showcase the village’s serene beauty – from panes of rippling river to snow-dusted rice fields stretching into misty horizons. These vistas emphasize nature’s primacy in the townspeople’s lives, making their concern for its protection feel visceral.
Then there are the uniquely captivating long takes. Like the mesmerizing multi-minute shots of Takumi chopping wood alone in shadowy forests, every action packed with tension. His axe falls in steady rhythm, but uncertainty looms in what remains unseen off-frame.
Kitagawa’s camera becomes a fly on the wall, absorbing the sounds and stillness of rural life. From sweeping forest strolls to intimate scenes inside homes, every detail draws you deeper inside this world. The pace may be leisurely but images are compelling; you hang on every visual note.
Hamaguchi manipulates perspective too, pulling us close to experience moments within Hana’s childlike view, or placing us outside the car window riding with Takumi, not quite in the driver’s seat. Uncertainty and unease percolate beneath scenic veneers.
Through cinematography that’s a visual poetry, Hamaguchi crafts a tactile journey into a place under threat. As bulldozers loom, these lush landscapes and rhythms of rural life take on new pathos. In Evil Does Not Exist, vivid visual storytelling packs as much punch as any plot twist.
Caught Between Calm and Chaos
For director Ryusuke Hamaguchi, characters are everything. And in Evil Does Not Exist, it’s the quietly powerful performances that give this deceptively serene story its soul. Lead Hitoshi Omika is a revelation as Takumi, inhabiting his solitary role with heartbreaking depths beneath the surface.
Playing a father still grieving past losses, Omika injects Takumi with layers of feeling he rarely speaks. His eyes hold the weight of private burdens as he chops wood or ferries his daughter through misty forests. There’s a taciturn dignity to him, yet fissures threaten in his strained bond with rebellious Hana.
Newcomer Ryo Nishikawa matching captures a child hovering on the verge of independence. Her eagerness to explore the wilderness alone hints at vulnerabilities in her home life. Together, Omika and Nishikawa craft a subtly fractured family dynamic, their farewells at day’s end dripping with unspoken pathos.
Supporting actors flesh out the community with rich specificity too. During the rousing town hall scene, each local voice brims with personality and stakes in their homeland. You feel their passion, humor and pain as a way of life faces eradication.
And as city reps Takahashi and Mayuzumi, Ryuji Kosaka and Ayaka Shibutani evolve from dispassionate suits to sympathetic souls caught in capitalism’s cogs. Their existential dreads and budding camaraderie with gruff Takumi give the film unexpected tenderness.
Together this gifted ensemble ensure Evil’s human drama is every bit as haunting as its atmospheric visuals. They inhabit a rural idyll under siege, where darkness broods beneath calm exteriors. And in their nuanced interplay lies not just tragedy’s seeds, but glimmers of humanity’s resilience against life’s storms. In the end, it’s their soulful interactions that linger longest.
A Deliberate Drag or Masterfully Paced?
Let me tell you, this movie takes its sweet time getting anywhere. Hamaguchi seems dead set on making us sit through every. single. mundane. detail. Nothing happens for what feels like forever – it’s just guy chopping wood, collecting water from the creek, picking up his kid from school. Normal day-to-day stuff that shouldn’t take half the movie to show.
But that’s where Hamaguchi aims to mess with you. See, all that boring routine is there for a reason – the director wants us to FEEL the rhythm of life in this little village. He’s immersing us in the world through tiny, telling’ touches like listening to the axe chop or water rush over stones. It puts us right alongside these folks, getting’ a taste for how they live. Pretty soon it don’t feel so tedious – it’s peaceful, if not riveting.
Then bam, just when you think you’ve got a handle on sleepy old’ Mizubiki, Hamaguchi pulls the rug out. All of a sudden there’s real drama with that corporate meeting, hinting at turmoil to come. But nope, right back to the poking’ pace. I’ll admit, it took some getting’ used to. Part of me wanted to rush things along.
But I got to hand it to Hamaguchi – he knows what he’s doing. Even if it isn’t a thrill a minute, his patience draws you deep into this world. The tension simmers so slow you barely notice, till it’s bubbling over. And man, when that ending hits… let’s just say I felt more than I bargained for.
In the end, I can appreciate what Hamaguchi aims to achieve with this deliberate style. It gives real weight to each moment, builds mystery through missing pieces. Was it a tough watch at times? You bet. But it sure left me thinking’ long after the credits rolled. Sometimes the slow road is what you need to see where you’re going. This director knows how to take the scenic route in all the right ways.
Provocative Forest Ride with Unexpected Twists
Boy howdy, when Ryusuke Hamaguchi grabs you by the hand and leads you into that forest at the start of Evil Does Not Exist, you just know you’re in for quite the adventure. Those sweeping glimpses up through the treetops as the score swirls all mystical-like had me feeling’ things deep in my soul from the get-go. I was floated along that forest floor, hanging’ on Hamaguchi’s every move through flickers of green and brown.
Then he quiets things down for a spell in Mizubiki village, and dang if those quiet scenes isn’t the most captivating’ kind of peace you ever did see. I felt like I was right there chopping’ wood and fetching’ water alongside old Takumi, soaking’ up the simple rhythms of life. Course that don’t last long before big bad business comes knocking’ with them glamping’ plans. Them arguments at the town hall had me feeling’ for the little folks just trying’ to keep their way of living’.
But Hamaguchi’s got more tricks up his sleeve, and the man sure knows how to lay down a curveball. Just when I’m getting’ cozy with the rep guys Takahashi and Mayuzumi, he yanks the script out from under and leaves me reeling’ with that shocking’ conclusion.
In the end, I’d say Evil Does Not Exist is Hamaguchi swinging’ for the fences in new territory. He trades the warmth of Happy Hour for icy ambiguity and provocation. Isn’t always a comfortable ride, but it sure gets the brain gears grinding’ something’ fierce. This director’s always pushing’ boundaries, and I’m dang curious to see where he’ll steer us next. One thing’s for sure – his forest haunts me something’ good, and I get the feeling’ this flick will be chewing’ on moviegoers for a long while to come.
The Review
Evil Does Not Exist
Evil Does Not Exist is an ambitious, thought-provoking film from Ryusuke Hamaguchi that experiments with ambiguity to probe complex issues around human impact on the environment and society. While the slow, oblique storytelling risks losing some viewers, those willing to immerse themselves will be rewarded with top-notch filmmaking craft and left to ruminate on the director's provocative conclusions. Ambitious in scope but uneven in execution, this challenging work demonstrates Hamaguchi's drive to push boundaries even if it achieves varying results.
PROS
- Gorgeous cinematography that immerses the viewer in rural Japanese landscapes
- Thought-provoking exploration of humanity's relationship with nature and impact of development
- Ambitious narrative structure and provocative conclusions that demand discussion
- Hypnotic pacing allows themes to linger in the mind
- Strong directorial vision from Ryusuke Hamaguchi
CONS
- Slow, oblique storytelling risks losing some viewers
- Characters lack dimensionality which hampers emotional engagement
- Narrative focus shifts leave some threads underdeveloped
- Ambiguous ending may frustrate those seeking definitive conclusions
- Pacing could benefit from tighter editing in places
