Unassuming Japanese master Ryusuke Hamaguchi was jolted into the dehumanizing glare of the Oscar machine after “Drive My Car” became an unexpected cause célèbre a few years ago. That generational masterpiece saw him ascend to the pinnacle of instant and unanimous global adoration and forged a salivating fanbase eagerly anticipating his subsequent work. It has arrived now in the form of “Evil Does Not Exist,” his engaging but decidedly minor eco-fable that, by his own admission, was chiefly meant as a palate cleanser. Those expecting another magnum opus might be frustrated by this small-scale rural drama and, especially, its confounding ending.
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‘Evil Does Not Exist’ began life as essentially a high-brow music video or slide show— a series of silent visuals meant to accompany the live performances of a new piece by Eiko Ishibashi, his “Drive My Car” composer. The project expanded to become a two-parter — taking the form of this narrative film as well as the music-only version —comprised of the same footage but likely excising the dialog sequences, among other things. It will premiere later in 2023 at the Ghent Film Festival in Belgium as a 30-minute presentation.
The story of its conception helps explain, to a degree, why “Evil Does Not Exist” feels so slight. It concerns a single father, Takumi (Hitoshi Omika), and his daughter, Hana (Ryo Nishikawa), living a few hours’ drive from Tokyo in a small village community of 6,000 people. The locals live in communal harmony with nature, amply taking benefit of the wooded environs, drinking from the pure streams, and interacting with the flora and fauna of the region. This cohabitation with the natural surroundings is threatened when a company sets up a glamping project in the area, jeopardizing this delicate ecological balance. 
The conflict presented is sketchy enough that it is better interpreted as a metaphor for the looming peril of gentrification and the encroachment of civilization. A stand-out scene is where the agency faces a revolt from the village’s residents (about two dozen people) during a meeting where the construction plans are disclosed. The villagers take turns chastising the visiting city folks, but the two sides are presented without complexity. The city folks are unambiguously ignorant, and the villagers are indubitably for the preservation of the neighborhood. Greater nuance and delineation would be expected from a director of such refinement. 
Hamaguchi carefully plants various motifs throughout the film — small bits of information or symbolism that do come to a head in the film’s baffling finale. It isn’t so much that what transpires is in doubt; it’s what it actually represents. Because by all indications, what happens cannot be taken at face value – and has to be construed metaphorically like the rest of the film. Whether it is a memento mori from the future or a vision of present anxieties, audiences will have to find their own individual mode of meaning in the film.
It is a laudable move by Hamaguchi to challenge the audience. When much of cinema today is about answers, it is admirable for at least one artist to ask some questions of us. Even so, it has to be noted that the particulars of Hamaguchi’s charade are unsatisfactorily set up. The crisis that eventually sparks the ending seems like it might have happened regardless of the encroachment of urban development into the rural environment. It consequently seems disconnected from his chief theme and exacerbates the feeling that “Evil Does Not Exist” doesn’t quite have the depth to reward the audience’s investment in it.
In terms of execution, “Evil Does Not Exist” has only a few characters, a handful of locations, and a slender throughline. That might make it seem like a film made during the pandemic, even though it was not. Or maybe even a candidate for Hamaguchi’s short films project — three of which were collected and released as the magnificent “Wheel Of Fortune And Fantasy.” Though “Evil Does Not Exist” doesn’t have the directness of those stories, nor does it concern matters of the heart.
For what it is, the film is immaculately directed and staged with the quiet competence of a superlative filmmaker. In particular, the considerable exterior footage, filmed on location in visually enticing settings, is pristine and well-photographed. The snow-laden winter setting and the mist and fog of the topography add visual interest throughout the film. Eiko Ishibashi’s music — which sparked the genesis of this project — is attractive in its evocation of layered harmonies akin to something you might hear in Wagner. The central theme, in particular, occurs several times throughout the film and will be easily recognizable due to its distinctive contours. 
Ian McEwan said in his great novel “Atonement,” “It wasn’t only wickedness and scheming that made people unhappy; it was confusion and misunderstanding.” Hamaguchi seems to be alighting on a similar conclusion through his enigmatic title and film. Even the absence of evil from this world might not save us from strife, misery, and the great big void. [B]