Evil Does Not Exist

The first thing I noticed wasn't the trees or the snow, but the sound of a manual saw biting into wood. It’s a rhythmic, physical sound that defines the life of Takumi, a handyman in the tiny village of Mizubiki. I watched this film on a Tuesday afternoon while my neighbor was relentlessly power-washing his driveway; the high-pitched mechanical whine from outside my window created a jarring, unintentional soundtrack that actually made the film’s central conflict—the intrusion of "civilized" noise into a silent world—feel personal.

Coming off the massive international success of Drive My Car, director Ryusuke Hamaguchi could have done anything. He could have jumped into a big-budget streaming series or a Hollywood co-production. Instead, he made Evil Does Not Exist, a film that feels like a quiet act of rebellion against the hyper-paced, algorithm-driven cinema of the 2020s. It started as a request from composer Eiko Ishibashi to create visual footage for her live performances, but it evolved into a narrative feature that is as sharp as the axe Takumi uses to split logs.

From Red Carpets to Cold Streams

In our current era of "content" saturation, where every frame is often designed to grab a viewer’s attention within the first three seconds, Hamaguchi asks us to look at water. Just water. We spend a significant amount of time watching Takumi, played with a stolid, grounded grace by Hitoshi Omika, as he bottles spring water for the local udon shop. There is a deep, tactile satisfaction in watching a person who knows exactly what they are doing.

Interestingly, Hitoshi Omika wasn't even a professional actor when he was cast; he was a crew member—a set decorator and driver—who Hamaguchi realized embodied the physical competence required for the role. This choice reflects a broader trend in contemporary "slow cinema" where the line between documentary realism and fiction blurs. When Takumi identifies wild wasabi or explains why the deer won't attack unless they're cornered, you aren't watching an actor recite lines; you're watching a man who looks like he has moss under his fingernails. It’s a refreshing change from the glossy, over-rehearsed performances we see in the franchise-heavy landscape of modern theaters.

The Commodification of the "Quiet Life"

The plot kicks in when two talent agency reps from Tokyo, played by Ryuji Kosaka and Ayaka Shibutani, arrive to hold a "briefing" for the locals. They want to build a glamping site. In a post-pandemic world where everyone is desperate for a "reset" and an Instagram-friendly escape to nature, the idea of glamping feels like the ultimate contemporary villain. It’s the commodification of the outdoors by people who don't want to get their boots dirty.

The scene where the villagers dismantle the corporate presentation is a masterwork of dialogue. There is no shouting, just a series of devastatingly logical questions about septic tanks and fire hazards. Ryuji Kosaka is particularly good here, capturing that specific kind of city-dweller who is "just doing his job" while slowly realizing he’s on the wrong side of history. If you want a movie to tell you exactly who to cheer for with a soaring orchestral swell, go watch a superhero flick; Hamaguchi wants you to sit in the uncomfortable silence of a boardroom meeting where everyone is polite and no one is happy.

The film captures a very specific 2020s anxiety: the feeling that the places we love are being slowly eroded by "development" that doesn't actually develop anything except a bottom line. It’s a theme that resonates globally, from the gentrification of city neighborhoods to the encroachment of tourism on the last few quiet corners of the map.

A Breath That Catches in Your Throat

As the film progresses, the relationship between the city outsiders and the villagers takes a strange turn. Ryuji Kosaka’s character, Takahashi, starts to think he might actually like the rural life. He wants to chop wood. He wants to learn. It’s a classic fish-out-of-water setup that Hamaguchi subverts at every turn. He doesn't let us settle into a heartwarming "city boy finds his soul" narrative.

Instead, the film shifts into something more atmospheric and haunting. The score by Eiko Ishibashi is incredible—it often cuts off mid-note, leaving you hanging in the air, much like the film’s ending. Speaking of the ending, it’s one that has sparked endless debate on social media and film forums. Most directors treat the audience like children who need their hands held; Hamaguchi treats us like adults who might get lost in the woods. It is abrupt, jarring, and seemingly defies the logic of everything that came before it, yet it feels spiritually honest to the title.

Evil Does Not Exist isn't a film that provides easy answers about climate change or corporate greed. It’s a film about balance—and what happens when that balance is tilted by even an inch. It’s a reminder that nature isn't a backdrop for our personal growth; it’s a living, breathing system that doesn't care about our glamping reservations.

In an age of streaming dominance where films often feel like background noise, Evil Does Not Exist demands your full, undivided presence. It’s a gorgeous, perplexing, and ultimately chilling look at the friction between the world we’ve built and the world that was already there. Give it your time, keep your phone in the other room, and let the cold mountain air get under your skin. Just don't expect a neat bow on the package when the credits roll.