Eerie and entrancing in equal measure, this contemporary sylvan fable from Ryusuke Hamaguchi is one of the most deceptively beautiful movies of the year so far.
Its glacial, near-wordless opening act documents the routines of Takumi (Hitoshi Omika), a widower keenly attuned to a lifestyle of quiet subsistence. In the icy mountains surrounding Mizubiki (a fictional Japanese village that's driving distance from Tokyo), Takumi spends his days chopping wood for his hearth and gathering crystalline spring water for the local udon shop.
Hamaguchi's depiction of this picture-book idyll gently unravels: first, with the distant gunshots of unseen deer hunters; second, with the realisation that Takumi's forgotten to pick up his daughter Hana (Ryo Nishikawa) from school again.
The film's story soon comes into focus with the announcement of a more pressing existential threat: the creation of a glamping site in Mizubiki for nearby city-slickers.
While the set-up suggests a familiar David-versus-Goliath battle across city lines and class divisions, the resulting social drama fractures into a series of unexpected, increasingly precarious turns – all culminating in a disquieting finale that evades straightforward interpretation.
At the centre of Evil Does Not Exist is an extended community meeting between the village's inhabitants and two representatives of the proposed development, Mayuzumi (Ayaka Shibutani; Happy Hour) and Takahashi (Ryuji Kosaka). In a brief dig at showbiz, it's revealed that both are employees of a talent agency whose boss is looking to cash in on a pandemic subsidy; needless to say, they're in embarrassingly over their heads.
Ryusuke Hamaguchi's films share a keenly observational quality. His previous feature, Drive My Car (which took home best international feature film in 2022 and earned the very first best picture nomination for a Japanese film among its four Oscar nominations), follows another quietly grieving widower who directs a production of Uncle Vanya.
The auditions and rehearsals in the film are played out with a documentary-like attention to procedure that often recalled Louis Malle's recording of Vanya on 42nd Street.
The community meeting in Evil Does Not Exist has a similar effect in its unfussy filming, which employs longer takes and minimal camera movement — though the spectacle of Mizubiki's inhabitants excoriating the agency's ill-conceived plans crosses over into cringe comedy.
Beyond the inherent contradiction of conducting a serious dialogue about glamping – a deeply unattractive portmanteau with no Japanese equivalent – the session sees arguments erupt over fire risks, promises of boosting the local economy, and the amount of sewage that should be allowed to pollute a town's fresh water supply.
While there's more than a tinge of schadenfreude to the near-ritualistic humiliation of the representatives, it's undercut by a disheartening inevitability. Impassioned pleas are stonewalled by feeble pledges to take feedback on board; the conversation is all but a formality.
The film isn't unsympathetic to Mayuzumi and Takahashi, though, whose actions drive the film's second half. Hamaguchi understands that his audience's perspective (as well as his own) is better reflected by the hapless urbanite reps than a self-sufficient survivalist like Takumi.
Evil Does Not Exist can be funny in the director's signature offhand manner – a quality evoked from the title itself – and its commentary is made stronger by his resistance to caricature. Even its most overt antagonist, a team project leader fluent in corporate speak who's glimpsed calling into a Google Hangout from his car, is presented with a scathing accuracy.
As the film progresses, concerns over the immediate threat posed by the agency are eclipsed by a troubled reflection on Mizubiki's delicate ecosystem. The camera lingers on the mountain's suffocating vastness, its rotting animal corpses and its piercing thorns, lacing the lush imagery with a subtle but unmistakeable menace; the methodical pacing gradually oozes with dread.
Evil Does Not Exist was initially conceived as a visual accompaniment to a live performance by musician Eiko Ishibashi so, unsurprisingly, her music is intrinsic to the film's uniquely haunting tone. Initially recalling the sonorous string compositions of Max Richter, the score descends into jarring dissonance and incorporates sparse electronic sounds. Just as important to the score is the film's sudden, razor-sharp cuts, which mercilessly disrupt its lull.
At times, the film recalls The Curse, Nathan Fielder and Benny Safdie's recent Paramount+ miniseries. Despite being completely different in tone, both narratives of class warfare, guilt and a perversion of the natural world are approached with a refreshing strangeness. Such themes have become rocket fuel for the recent cultural landscape, yet rarely is this material allowed to feel genuinely, menacingly abstract.
It's hard to imagine that Evil Does Not Exist will attain the status of Hamaguchi's previous Oscar darling film – which is precisely what makes the film so exciting. It's a daring creative pivot that spells out a rich future for the director.
But for all its surprises and enigmas, it's not an inaccessible film. Audiences who let themselves submit to its irresistible, hypnotic rhythms will be rewarded by a film that inspires genuine contemplation, however troubling its conclusions may be.
Evil Does Not Exist is in cinemas now.