The Current Cinema - Janice Tong sends in a Filmic Postcard about EVIL DOES NOT EXIST (Ryûsuke Hamaguchi, Japan, 2023)

Between the visible and the invisible: the enchantment of fate in Evil Does Not Exist

Hitoshi Omika as Takumi in his woodland shelter

 

It is possible that Ryûsuke Hamaguchi’s cinematic world displaces the real, even though the story that unfolds is often filled with the everydayness of existence: human enterprise, the need for connection, sketches of nature, chance encounters; and all through modest but memorable performances and finely crafted dialogue. His latest, Evil Does Not Exist, isn’t so much an ecological fable, it has the whimsy of a fairy tale; or perhaps, better yet, the intrinsic philosophical traits of a thought experiment – one that invites both simple and complex answers; as well as conjuring up lines of thought within us that are difficult to define because they belong to the transcendental nature of things.

 

Let’s start with this well-worn premise: “If a tree falls in a forest, and there is no one to witness it, would it make a sound?” We immediately start to ponder on the tree’s existence beyond the mind, or our perception. Maybe you’re asking a question in return: “Why does it matter?” or answering the initial question with “Of course it does! We can’t possibly think something doesn’t exist just because we are not there to see it.” And others would say that “Sound is a mechanical wave that requires an ear or another sensory receptor to perceive it”. To respond in such a way is natural, and this is the same as when one attempts to grapple with the meaning of Hamaguchi’s title as statement: “evil does not exist” – where? Where does evil not exist in this world? Or perhaps you’ve drawn the conclusion that Mother Nature can do no evil as it does not know the difference? But does that supposition not situate the human (and with that human nature) outside of the world in which we live? If not, then the ‘evilness’ in human nature becomes, all too simply, a sociological construct. 

 

Lovely Hana in her many quiet moments

Eight year old Hana (Ryô Nishikawa), and her father, Takumi (Hitoshi Omika) live in a small rural community of Mizubiki outside of Tokyo. Their shared world is often in companionable silence, or punctuated with practical knowledge passed down from father to daughter, like how to read animal tracks, or tree names and their identification characteristics. They are at ease with the land they live on; Hana often wanders the woodlands, its adjoining fields and watering hole on her own and without fear. The trepidation an audience feels is often associated with other filmic and traditional narratives involving lone girls wandering in isolated environments; her image conjures up that of Little Red Riding Hood and other less charming contemporary crime dramas. 

 

Cutting wood provides the metronomic heartbeat of the film

On the other hand, Takumi acts like a typical single father; the village ‘handyman’ – he is a skilled woodcutter and the rhythmic chopping of firewood in two long sequences show his strength and solitary nature. We are invited to share his world through the duration Hamaguchi prioritises in these scenes. Time spent observing Takumi chopping wood gives us a sense, (however fleeting a 5 minute scene actually is in someone’s life) of his existence – he is the heartbeat of the community and his woodcutting, with every stroke of his axe – just like his footsteps – creates the pulse of the film. Practical, self-sufficient, strong. Like Chantal Akerman’s long sequences, these scenes force the audience into a different mode of perceptive temporality, because as the scene unfolds it transforms our experience into a thoughtful, conscious lived time. Reminding us that Hamaguchi is no stranger to cinema in the long form; his film Happy Hour (2015) ran to 5 hours and 17 minutes. It is a treat, as Omika gives a stunning and natural performance; first-time actor, he was production manager to Hamaguchi’s Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (2021).

 

The many faces of the natural world

Then, the film shifts gears with the introduction of outsiders. They have come to speak with the community about a ‘glamping’ site development in the reserve. Solemn but polite discussion and feedback take place in a town hall meeting with the tightly-knit community, including the chief of the town. Slowly, through their paced feedback; the inhabitants unmask the potential environmental disaster and impact if the site build were to continue as planned. Back in Tokyo, it is of course revealed that the glamping development is but a money-making scheme for the owners; developed in haste to take advantage of a government grant and the cost cutting would prove to be a disastrous proposition for the environment and livelihood of the residents. Even the two representatives present at the community meeting felt morally corrupt to move forward. This is an affecting narrative and is intended for our loyalties to sway from the residents of Mizubki to the two representatives from the agency who seem to suddenly reveal to us (and to themselves) their humanity; and also to the wildlife that inhabit the land. 

 

Is one for ‘progress’ or intrinsic change

Hamaguchi’s stylistic choices evoke a folklorish mystery to an array of displaced point of view shots, like when he mounted the camera on the back of Takumi’s truck in two similar sequences. The point of view captures Takumi’s departure from the school after he failed to remember to pick up daughter and is reminiscent of a scene fromAntonioni’s The Passenger (1975) when Maria Schneider’s character stands up in the and turns her back to the front seat; although in Hamaguchi’s film, nobody is running away from their past. Then in another scene, we see Takumi’s face in close-up before we learn, from the dialogue, that he is hovering over a wild wasabi plant. But whose point of view is this? The plant’s? A temporal point of view?

 

In many of Hamaguchi’s films; it is as though time in all its valencies already coexists in his filmic universe. His films are populated with echoes of images: like the doppelgängers of themselves, or actual doppelgängers like in Asako I & II (2018) or in one of the stories in Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy. So too, the eye of the camera misses nothing, especially the uncanny, (just like Takumi) – like the drop of blood caught in the thorn of the Siberian ginseng tree, or the gutshot deer in this mystical forest of frost fields and leaf litter. 

 

In a creative partnership: Eiko Ishibashi (L) and Ryûsuke Hamaguchi (R)

The germination of this film actually started when composer Eiko Ishibashi asked Hamaguchi to produce a video for her live performance – Ishibashi first worked with Hamaguchi in Drive My Car (2021). In an interview, Hamaguchi said that he had to restructure the way he worked to do this. Rather than progressing the narrative through dialogue, he felt that the actors had to co-exist independently to her music so that when they finally combined, it would produce a most compelling synergy. The flipside companion piece, GIFT, was created; a 30 minute film without dialogue or diegetic sounds but paired with a live score by Eiko Ishibashi using footage from the feature film made an appearance at this year’s Hong Kong International Film Festival in February. More recently it was shown at the Walter Reade Theater in May, ahead of the NYFF61 special screening of Evil Does Not Exist. 

 

For me, Schumann’s Vogel als Prophet (Bird as Prophet) – played here by the one and only Maria João Pires – from Waldszenen (Forest Scenes) Op. 82 (1849) makes a perfect pairing for this film and echoes the kind of uncanny ambience woodlands evoke. I could hear this score in my mind’s eye when replaying a few of the forest sequences.

 

Whose POV?

In the feature film, Ishibashi’s score acts as a counterpoint to the tale.  In its opening travelling sequence, a point of view shot from the forest floor – we observe a pre-dawn or crepuscular sky with its tree crowns up above. Unmoored, this shot provides little sense of narrative connection, but accompanied by Ishibashi’s melancholic composition it becomes mournful and ominous. When the music comes abruptly to an end – the sound literally torn away from our ears without warning – one can’t help but feel a little bereft or even wounded by this (or rather, the lack of) soundscape. The image cuts to Hana’s sweet face observing a tree close up; and just as quickly, the ominous feeling is forgotten. 

 

And in another travelling sequence, this one of Takumi in the forest tracking his daughter whom he’s forgotten to pick up from school, we see him walk along a forest trail on his own, the camera progresses from left to right following his course. Our vision of him is gradually blocked by the cross section of landscape in front of us – the camera is on a lower plane than that of the trail – we see soil, snow, tree roots and its substratum as it continues to track along for a good 20 seconds or more. When we finally come to a clear view of the path again; we find Hana being piggybacked by her father and the two of them continue to move along the trail. No audible sounds were heard that indicated their union. We are left to imagine their meeting in our own minds only after the fact. 

 

^{Father and daughter reunited}

So too, the ending that has caused quite a stir amongst filmgoers, exists outside of our visual field. Asking what happened is like asking whether a thought experiment can draw a definitive answer. Just like when one asks whether a falling tree would make a sound if no one is there to perceive it…I suppose our only consolation is that we are mere humans; and it is in our nature to relate meaning with existence. 

 

 

As of May 2024, Evil Does Not Exist is currently showing at various cinemas. You can find Ryûsuke Hamaguchi’s films Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy and Drive My Car on Stan, AppleTV and Prime.

This piece was first published on Janice Tong's blog Night...thoughts on Cinema