Presented in preview at the 80th Venice International Film Festival, Evil Does Not Exist wins the Golden Lion for Best Director, confirming Ryūsuke Hamaguchi as one of the most prominent Japanese filmmakers of the moment.
After already gaining attention in 2015 with Happy Hour at the Locarno Festival (where one of the protagonists won the Golden Leopard for Best Female Performance), it is since 2018 that – with Asako I & II – he truly achieved international fame, making a name for himself at the Cannes Film Festival.
The Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy conquers the jury of the Berlin Film Festival, which awards him the Best Director prize (2021), and with Drive My Car (Oscar winner for Best International Film, 2022) Hamaguchi is definitively consecrated as a cult author.
Evil Does Not Exist does not deviate from this upward trajectory. Not only for its festival accolades, but because it reflects, reinvents, and revisits those atmospheres and sensations typical of his cinematography, adapting them to a film that is absolutely current, terribly contemporary, and profoundly unsettling.
But above all, it is universal.
These are often difficult things to reconcile together, especially without becoming cumbersome. And Hamaguchi never does, quite the opposite.
His works are impeccably crafted, every piece fits together perfectly, and every compartment converses in a sinuous flow with the other: from the natural cinematography to the disorienting soundtrack, to the fluid use of the camera, to the skillful editing. Yet his works seem to spring forth autonomously as if forgetting the audience.
For this reason, it transcends, or rather, surpasses genres. It includes them but mocks them. Evil Does Not Exist opens as a bitter comedy with bucolic tones, takes the shape of an eco-social drama, transforms into a thriller, and concludes with a mysterious and magical ending.
The story is set in the small rural village of Harasawa, where single father Takumi lives with his young daughter Hana, leading an eco-sustainable life in close contact with nature. He cuts wood, collects water from the spring, teaches a green life to his daughter, and studies the passage of deer, perhaps the true master of the house: that forest which is a source of sustenance for the small local community.
It is precisely this habitat that is about to be destroyed by the arrival of the big city, when a Tokyo company decides to build a glamping site (glamorous camping) in the area, severely jeopardizing the ecological balance and cleanliness of the environment.
The film tells of this encounter and clash, the progress that invades the rural and essential days of the village inhabitants. A theme that, between literature and cinema, is certainly recurring, but here it is told with already very personal tones. With an almost monotonous calm, sincere monologues that are so honest as to be almost boring but are actually extremely rich, and clear and serene tones.
In the last part, the work is tinged with dark and thriller notes, since the sudden disappearance of the young girl afflicts the entire town, which sets out to find her. Here, the increasingly restless atmosphere progressively brings the film’s reflection to a deeper level.
The shared anxiety of the whole community, the cryptic symbolism of the ending and the figure of the deer itself, and the distressing unease constructed not only through the content but also through the natural twilight lights and musical dissonances, project a series of meanings with absolutely anthropological value.
To assist in this is the cryptic symbolism of the ending embodied in the figure of the deer and Hana herself.
Where the animal becomes an icon of violence but at the same time of righteousness, the girl manifests the kind of characteristics that place her in the wake of characters like Iphigenia. Like the heroine of Euripides’ famous Greek tragedy (not coincidentally connected in the ending with a deer), Hana comes into contact with an entity that helps her connect with being and elevate herself, something that would be made impossible by the corruption and alienation of urban civilization. Here, the blood that flows from the girl’s nose after her encounter with the deer and its cub takes on the benevolent value typical of Japanese symbolism: Hana has grown.
The deliberately anguishing final shots leave the audience with a feeling of unease that is appropriate for keeping alive the reflection that inspired the director.
Evil Does Not Exist therefore separates itself from mere topicality (which is still valid) and assumes absolute and no longer (only) contingent meanings.
A film that uses social analysis as a springboard for a reflection that delves into the wounds of the human soul and its daily, social, spiritual, and existential experiences.
Therefore, a deeply earthly and elevated piece of art.
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