Evil Does Not Exist: TIFF 2023: An Inaccessible Criticism of Environmental Loss and Gentrification
There’s a certain emotivity evoked by the title "Evil Does Not Exist." Beauty springs to mind; innocence; even wonder. An analysis of nature, perhaps: flora, fauna. Existentialism, of some regard. It seems almost fallacious, then, when a film with such a title is centred around not beauty, nor wonder, but the capacity for selfishness—and the lengths that even the most benevolent will go to protect from such a plight. Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s latest, a simultaneous exploration of the tranquility of nature and unsubtle condemnation of gentrification, explores just that: and, though well-intentioned, is too unfocused, paradoxical, to leave any semblance of genuine impact.
To describe Hamaguchi’s most recent feature, it is simplest to split it into three. The prototypical film is oft divided into three distinct acts, each of which build upon the former. In Evil Does Not Exist, there are not so much three ‘acts’ as three distinct ‘parts,’ the first two of which later meld to create conflict for the latter. Villager Takumi is one’s guide into the story: a man who preaches the connectivity of nature and the soul, whose day-to-day includes languid walks through snow-capped forests, visitations to babbling brooks, and establishing a symbiotic relationship with the world around him. A threat, however, arises in the arrival of a corporation, intent on transforming the nearby forest into a for-profit ‘glamping,’ or ‘glamorous camping,’ tourist site. As Takumi grapples with the impact of the proposed gentrification upon his beloved forest, his naturalistic village, the perspectives of the corporate gentrifiers are interspersed, ushering in a second act comprised of a 20-plus-minute courtroom question session—and, as the proposal is ultimately passed, their lives become intertwined with Takumi’s, climaxing in brutal, sudden, and genuinely-unexpected devastation.
Evil Does Not Exist was initially propositioned as a 30-minute silent short, which is perhaps why it does not feel fully realized as a feature. Scenes that need not be longer than a moment stretch into an eternity, to the point at which the film is packed with 3-, 5-, even near-10-minute sequences in which there’s little more action than the rustling of leaves, or the bubbling of a spring, or the repeated collection of water in a series of jugs. There’s beauty in the imagery of nature, that much is inarguable; still, there’s no semblance of meaning, impact, emotivity, lending a languid, tedious, and, honestly, excruciating collection of unfocused monotony. Perhaps in its initial format, one might be able to pull appreciation from the stillness; yet in a feature of near-tripled length, these scenes do little more than stall.
Furthermore, never does one receive a proper understanding of character intent, motivation, or any semblance of trait or personality. Takumi appears morally ambiguous; he seldom speaks, and his interactions with his surroundings—the stream he oft visits, the trees bordering his property—are little more than passive. Chopping wood is practiced: no emotion. Collecting from the spring: rote habit. His argumentation with the gentrifiers hints towards an appreciation for the world around him, and yet, outside of what is told, via his yelled remarks, there’s nothing that shows why he may feel this way. The pair of gentrifiers, too, seem to be little more than faceless voices for a higher-ups’ decree; they do not seem to care about the grievances they bear, delivering it without emotion, drive, or any semblance of greater purpose. Are they fighting for what they think is right, or do they just care about keeping a payday? Never is it clarified, and so never can one properly empathize, or even sympathize, with them at all. For one to truly connect to a tale, one must connect to its characters—their core beliefs, their driving force, the way in which they see the world—and that, too, is a locale in which this falters.
It’s evident that Hamaguchi has much to say about the balance of nature, and the pitfalls thrust upon by gentrified humanity. The way in which he goes about presenting such a theme, however, is hindered by a lack of focus—and a languor steeped in apathy, disinterest. The transition from ‘silent short’ to ‘expanded feature’ feels unnatural, between preternaturally-inserted, yet under-baked insertions and scenes stretching far beyond their means. Hamaguchi is certainly well-intentioned, and his passion for the subject seeps clearly through the visual and thematic splendour. Alas, the inaccessible exploration of the topic, combined with the bizarre final few moments, does little to drive home the point, instead making one wish for any sentiment to linger beyond ‘murky’ or ‘perplexed.’ Evil may or may not not exist, in this filmatic setting; yet one certainly wonders what could've been done to construct a cinematic effort whose existence strikes the impact it deserves.
SCORE: 3.4/10
★★☆☆☆