Evil Does Not Exist 悪は存在しない unfolds the story of a small and remote rural Japanese community battling an unscrupulous developer who plans to build a glamping (camp) site outside their village, the fictional Mizubiki. In some write-ups and plot summaries the village is said to be near Tokyo but this is not the case. It is to be found at least 100 kms away in the Japanese Alps, in Nagano Prefecture. (It was mainly shot in Fujimi-cho and Haramura (原村) in Suwa-gun, Nagano Prefecture, and some locations in Kobuchizawa, Yamanashi Prefecture.)
The real nature of the location is an important point of clarification as placing it ‘near Tokyo’ creates a different expectations of how rural this place is; it suggests incorrectly that Mizubiki is a semi-rustic suburb. A satellite commuter community perhaps. This is not the case. For Tokyo people, whether the developer or glampers, Mizubiki would not be the familiar easily accessible countryside on their doorstep but an environment unknown. They would not understand its ways; they would not know how to behave. They may think they do but in truth they are intruders rather like the weekend adventure seekers in Deliverance. (A deliberate choice as parallels run between the two films.) And indeed this is what unfolds: the people of the city at odds with the people from the country.
The film adopts a slow pace, reflecting the pace of life in the village, and is suffused with mystery from the first frames as the camera tracks slowly sideways and skywards under a canopy of trees. From the start this creates an unsettling sense, one suggesting that the viewer is not necessarily about to watch a simple linear narrative where all is clear. On the other hand, this is not slow film making, where the audience can gently drift into a state of comfort lulled by Eiko Ishibashi’s music and the backdrop of what looks initially like a bucolic landscape: mountains such as Mt Nyukasa rise majestically in the background, the village is surrounded by pristine woodland bisected by crystal clear streams, and infused with the call of unseen birds.
This essay is not the place for a scene-by-scene breakdown of the plot. Instead let’s dwell on the film’s premise and how it accords with the film’s ending and denouement.
Principally the film explores a simple premise: how do people behave in the natural environment both those who live day-by-day surrounded by nature, and those city and urban dwellers who arrive as strangers? How do these two very different types interact with each other? Of course the audience should expect conflict and dissonance not least because this is how our expectations of the film are set up. But like all Hamaguchi films what seems to be the ordinary, gradually opens up in ways that are unexpected. Something has shifted within the narrative but we have not noticed when this happened and why. A trait that happens in our own lives. No matter how much we believe we are in control and on a carefully defined path we discover that life indeed can turn wholly unexpectedly on a sixpence or a dime. Sometimes when we look back, with the benefit of hindsight, we might then recognise a decisive moment (or moments). Sometimes not.
As we reach the end of the film we see one of Hamaguchi’s favoured devices: showing behaviour that is not often seen in Japanese society. As he has explained, ‘In general, Japanese people wouldn’t say some of the dialogue in my movies. In Japanese culture, expressing your emotions in a very honest and straightforward manner is not common. At the same time, letting the characters say something that’s honest and direct is something that’s necessary for me in my films.’ This is true for the two city dwellers, the pawns of the developer who confess their inner most thoughts to each other as they drive between the city and countryside. Even the villagers are more vocal than might be expected when expressing their anger in public about the proposed development that they see as potentially undermining their way of life and the harmony that exists within the community.
But Takumi? He is as reserved, undemonstrative, and as uncommunicative as they come. Until that is, the film’s final moments.
Most commentators describe these last scenes as ambiguous. We see behaviour that is wholly unexpected; that has, apparently, been barely signalled in what has taken place previously. The actions are wholly contrary to our expectations of the seemingly mild-mannered, placid Takumi.
The violent attack on Takahashi is surely the embodiment of evil. After all, the rather gauche and gormless Takahashi has done no wrong, has worked as a typical subservient salaryman before undergoing a Road to Damascus conversion as he confesses that he is not who he wants to be. Is he not someone who should be lauded for his newly found determination to break away from the shackles of corporate life? Praised for being so brave as to confess that he has been living a lie?
The pieces of the jigsaw start to fall into place. As Takumi robotically chops wood, or fills containers with spring water, he has plenty of time to dwell on his life. And yet on reflection he never seems at ease – either with himself, those around him, or with nature.
Perhaps there is a well of pent-up anger simmering beneath the surface. His wife has died. We don’t know what happened to her but this can certainly help explain his silences as he drifts bereft from one day to the next. It helps explains how, with his thoughts elsewhere, he is distracted and fails to remember to pick up Hana on time even though he is the only one who can now care for her.
She walks home and is shot by a distant hunter. (She is not attacked by the deer.) A hunter who is also not part of the local community but an outsider. Isn’t it true that it is always the innocent that suffer most? Yet Takumi is partially responsible. After all he forgot to collect Hana from school – again. It’s his irresponsible behaviour that meant she had to walk home when he knew there were hunters in the area. And while rare, deaths do occur in Japan from hunting incidents – including the misidentification of people for game.
Perhaps he was also partially responsible for his wife’s death. Even if not literally the case that might be the way he feels; or he has the guilt of the survivor – ‘why her and not me?’ Something in the past, although we are not told what, has stained him with malice and malevolence. The way he methodically chops the wood becomes the symbolic expression of this.
Swamped with emotion, Takumi has lost all reason. The forces of evil rise up within him. Takahashi is not a friend. Not even an acquaintance. He is an outsider who has intruded on Takumi’s life. He tagged along when Takumi didn’t want him there. Now he is running towards the body and could reach it before Takumi. But isn’t that a natural reaction? Wouldn’t everyone run towards a body?
But like Hana, Takahashi is – by chance and bad luck – in the wrong place at the wrong time. Although he finally collapses we are left unsure whether he has died. Possibly not as he stands up before collapsing again. In fact what has happened to him matters not. He has not earned the audience’s sympathy. And at the same time Takumi’s strangling is so violent and prolonged that it can only be because he wanted to kill the man. The red mist had descended, he had lost control and even if he didn’t know what he was doing this was still an act with murderous intent.
Hamaguchi has said in an interview with Luke Hicks:
‘For me, it’s actually quite a natural ending to the film. That’s perhaps because the way I understand Takumi’s character might, in fact, be a little bit different from how the audience is interpreting what kind of character Takumi is. I think Takumi certainly has a side to him, a facet to him, that can very much live within human society and communicate quite well. However, I think inside me I kind of understand him as somebody who actually can’t communicate well with other beings and who perhaps can communicate a little bit better with nature or animals. And so once you move along with that rule, what you speak of as atonal, I think that rule starts to appear once we follow him and see how he moves through the world. So the first time you watch it, you might be surprised by the ending. However, perhaps upon second viewing – some people have said this – peculiarly the ending is quite acceptable once you watch again. And I’d be very grateful if people do.’
He goes on to say:
‘I think I have to understand and agree and say that the ending is, to an extent, quite ambiguous. But I don’t think it’s as symbolic or as unrealistic as many people tend to say it is. I think what I’m working with is within a sense of what’s realistic, what’s realistic for these three characters: Takahashi, Takumi, and Hana. I think it’s within the reality of what could actually happen amongst these characters. Regarding the sound and image of what happens: I think what happens is quite clear from the image and sound. However, we are left with the question of why that happens. And it’s true that the film doesn’t give a clear answer why. However, I do feel that I am peppering in clues here and there.’
The ambiguity comes from the slight time shift that takes place across the final scenes, the way the deer is treated, and the fact that there is no absolutely clear resolution as to whether Takahashi and Hana are dead or alive. But, as Hamaguchi says, this is most pronounced when watching the film for the first time when the ending comes as an unexpected shock, destabilising the audience’s point of view. Particularly as across the film a deep sympathy has been created for Takumi. No one wants to believe the worse. (And the truth, which Hamaguchi has know all along.)
Takumi of course has destroyed his life. Whether Takahashi is alive or dead there are serious consequences awaiting him and, without doubt, he will be imprisoned. Which means that whether Hana is alive or dead is also of no consequence. Even if alive, her future life too has been destroyed by the actions of her father.
And there lies the paradox. In this small community, the effect of Takumi’s actions will now have a significant impact that will linger for years among both adults and children. What he has done is no different to that of the developer: he has destroyed the balance and harmony of the community. After this, perhaps the villagers will lose the will to fight the development, and the glamping site will be built. After all, it is not just evil that comes from the outside but the evil that exists within. An evil that often emanates from the most unexpected quarter. And yet isn’t that often the case? How many times do we hear after some terrible act, a neighbour say ‘but he was such a quiet gentle person, you would have never thought…’
The Film Stage. Luke Hicks April 30, 2024
Sight and Sound. April 2024.
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Graham Thomas 