The Unsettling Harmony of the Wild: An In-Depth Look at Hamaguchi Ryusuke’s Evil Does Not Exist

In the landscape of contemporary cinema, few directors possess the ability to command silence and stillness quite like Hamaguchi Ryusuke. Following the international triumph of Drive My Car (2021), which garnered global acclaim and an Academy Award, the Japanese auteur returned to the screen with a haunting, atmospheric departure: Evil Does Not Exist. Winner of the Grand Jury Prize at the 2023 Venice Film Festival, the film serves as both a meditation on ecological fragility and a piercing critique of urban encroachment, marking a tonal shift toward the uncanny that echoes the works of his mentor, Kurosawa Kiyoshi.

The Genesis of an Eco-Fable

The origins of Evil Does Not Exist are as unconventional as the film itself. The project was not born from a singular narrative impulse but as an extension of a creative partnership with multi-instrumentalist Ishibashi Eiko. Following the exhausting awards circuit for Drive My Car, Hamaguchi initially sought a period of creative hibernation. However, by late 2021, Ishibashi proposed a visual collaboration to accompany her live musical performances—a project that would eventually be titled Gift.

Tasked with creating a 75-to-90-minute visual component without the need for synchronized dialogue, Hamaguchi found himself liberated from his usual stylistic constraints. "My starting point was the fact that I wouldn’t have to create any sound," Hamaguchi noted in a recent interview. "Then I realized Eiko was giving me the freedom to do whatever I wanted." As the footage for Gift began to coalesce, Hamaguchi realized the raw material—a narrative about a small village threatened by a "glamping" project—possessed a weight and complexity that necessitated a stand-alone feature. He approached Ishibashi for permission to branch off, resulting in the birth of Evil Does Not Exist.

Chronology of a Disruption

The narrative structure of the film is deceptively simple, unfolding in the fictional village of Mizubiki—a synthesis of various locations across the Nagano and Yamanashi prefectures.

• The Status Quo: The film introduces Takumi (Omika Hitoshi), a stoic widower and local handyman. His life is a rhythmic cycle of chopping wood, gathering pure spring water for the local udon shop, and navigating the vast, intimidating beauty of the forest with his young daughter.
• The Catalyst: The tranquility of Mizubiki is punctured by the arrival of two talent agency representatives from Tokyo. They represent a corporate interest seeking to install a "glamping" site—a luxury camping facility intended for urbanites seeking a curated version of the wilderness.
• The Conflict: The film centers on a town-hall meeting, a sequence that highlights the disconnect between the developers’ ignorance of the local ecosystem and the residents’ deep-seated, protective connection to their land.
• The Climax: As the corporate puppets attempt to navigate the intricacies of the village’s water cycle and topography, the film moves from a social drama into a territory of ambiguous, foreboding dread, culminating in an ending that challenges the audience’s moral expectations.

Supporting Data and Creative Methodology

The efficacy of Evil Does Not Exist lies in Hamaguchi’s unique directorial process. Known for his rigorous rehearsal techniques, he applied his methodology to a cast of both professionals and non-actors. Omika Hitoshi, who played the lead character Takumi, was originally the film’s driver and a crew member on Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (2021).

"I had Hitoshi do the stand-ins," Hamaguchi explained. "That’s when I realized he has a great face… there was almost an animal-ness to him." By utilizing his trademark method of having actors read lines without emotion, Hamaguchi stripped away performative artifice, allowing the characters to exist in a state of "malleable" truth. This approach extends to the film’s depiction of the glamping developers, whom Hamaguchi characterizes not as villains, but as symbols of "extraction"—individuals who seek to shave off the inconveniences of nature to provide a sanitized experience for the city-dweller.

Official Perspectives and Philosophical Underpinnings

When discussing the environmental themes of the film, Hamaguchi is careful to avoid moralizing. Instead, he positions the conflict as a fundamental difference in perception. He admits that as an urbanite, he shares a certain "distance" from the natural world that he critiques in his own characters.

"I was very conscious of myself as an urban person simply coming in and enjoying nature in this blissful way," he reflected. This self-awareness informs the film’s most striking scenes—the act of chopping wood or collecting water is presented as both beautiful and potentially prone to failure. By capturing the "nervous tension" of physical labor, Hamaguchi forces the audience to acknowledge that the wilderness is not a static background for human activity, but an indifferent, living force that demands respect.

Regarding the inclusion of children, a rarity in his recent filmography, Hamaguchi noted the stark difference between the conditioned behavior of adults and the raw, uninhibited presence of a child. "Japanese adults are really bound by certain standards of speech and conduct," he observed. "Children are able to bring an authenticity that adults feel restricted from exhibiting."

Implications for Modern Society

The implications of Evil Does Not Exist extend far beyond the borders of Mizubiki. The film acts as a mirror held up to urban populations that view rural landscapes as "resources" to be commodified. The "glamping" trope, which the director acknowledges is viewed with a mix of irony and disdain in both Japan and the West, becomes a vehicle for exploring the wider folly of human arrogance in the face of ecological systems we do not fully understand.

The film’s score, composed by Ishibashi Eiko, plays an integral role in this realization. By utilizing an extended tracking shot of the forest canopy accompanied by a "plangent" score, Hamaguchi establishes a sensory experience that is "quite unlike" his previous work. It is a work of "awe, fragility, and horror," suggesting that the real "evil" in the film’s title is not a singular person or corporation, but the willful blindness of those who ignore the delicate, interdependent rhythms of the natural world.

Conclusion: A Master at the Peak of His Powers

Evil Does Not Exist serves as a poignant reminder that cinema can be both a gentle observation of daily life and a terrifying descent into the unknown. By shifting his focus from the internal psychological landscapes of urbanites to the external, indifferent majesty of the forest, Hamaguchi Ryusuke has evolved his craft.

The film does not offer easy answers regarding the preservation of nature or the culpability of the city. Instead, it invites the viewer into a space of quiet contemplation. It asks us to look at the lattice of the trees and the flow of the stream and realize that our presence—our "development" and our "convenience"—is merely a temporary interruption in a cycle that will continue long after we have left. With Evil Does Not Exist, Hamaguchi proves that he is not just a master of dialogue and relationship dynamics, but a filmmaker capable of capturing the terrifying, sublime, and inherently ungraspable essence of the wild.