Evil never dies
Rysuke Hamaguchi's Evil Does Not Exist grew out of a collaborative project with his longtime composer Eiko Ishibashi, who had asked for a film to accompany her live concerts. The concert film-- GIFT-- ended up running seventy-four minutes long; the source footage however apparently took root in Hamaguchi's head and sprouted into a 106 minute film (relatively short for Hamaguchi-- Drive My Car was 179 minutes and Happy Hour 317 minutes) that Hamaguchi released as a separate but not necessarily independent feature.
Relatively simple setup: talent agency Playmode is bent on establishing a glamping site near the small town of Mizubiki, and sends a pair of representatives to sound out the locals. The locals raise all kind of objections (the septic tank will contaminate the groundwater, the deer paths will be blocked, the campsite fires will be a constant hazard) and basically tear the reps' sales pitch to shreds.
Think Local Hero meets Dersu Uzala, though Hamaguchi's film is both more tonally delicate and more startlingly funny than such a combination might suggest; if anything Hamaguchi's humor is dryer than Forsyth's, and so lightly played you can miss the laughs altogether. One character explicitly calls out the company's true motives-- not to provide the latest in tourist attractions but to cash in on soon-to-expire pandemic subsidies; corporate reps Mayazumi (Ayaka Shibutani) and Takahashi (Ryuji Kosaka) blink their eyes in response like a pair of deer caught in headlights.
The reps report back to their boss via Zoom call or the Japanese equivalent, and the executive can barely bring himself to follow their input; when they mention that the community's putative leader is handyman Takumi (Hitoshi Omika) it's quickly suggested that they hire him as the glampsite's caretaker, to mollify the natives.
But that's the plotty bits, amusing they may be. Hamaguchi's film may thrive on the uneasy confrontations between cagy townfolk and clueless urbanites but breathes leisurely lungfuls of air in the scenes where nothing much happens: Takumi ladling creek water into gallon jugs and carrying the jugs to the town noodle shop (the noodle shop's owners and their insistence on developing broth and udon from the local water supply are my personal favorites, my fantasy being to either own such a shop or eat in one); the long walk through the woods where Takumi quizzes his daughter Hana (Ryo Nishikawa) on nearby flora (watch out for Siberian ginseng with its wicked sharp thorns), the quiz so stuffed with exotic names and esoteric herbal properties I wanted to take detailed notes. An enchanted forest inhabited by eccentrics-- no wonder Takahashi professes a desire to take up permanent residence.
But beware; some bushes hide a poisoned spine, some fairy tales a secret jolt of horror. Takahashi and Mayazumi approach Takumi with their proposal and the latter seems responsive in his quiet gentle way, but the two would do well to remember that he spends much of his day chopping wood with strong sure strokes. Also: that many fairy tales begin with one's dearest wish being granted, and then trouble follows.
And the ending? And the title? Theories abound, might as well throw my own hat in the ring (skip the rest of this paragraph if you plan to watch!)-- taking the most literal approach I say Takumi and Takahashi are standing there watching Hana approach a wounded deer and its faun and rather than risk the deer attacking Hana because big clumsy Takahashi wants to blunder in to the rescue, Takumi wraps himself around Takahashi and chokes him unconscious, picks up Hana-- who has been knocked down by said deer anyway while he was busy with Takahashi-- and runs her into town for medical treatment (there are those that insist Hana approaching the faun is a flashback, that both Hana and Takahashi are really dead, that Takumi is experiencing some kind of psychotic break; that Takumi is really a deer-- Hamaguchi is on record as saying he thinks there's something to that). As for the title I'm taking it as either sarcastic assertion or elliptic admission-- the latter suggesting everything and everyone has their reasons, don't really think of themselves as evil, and act accordingly.
The film with its precise yet opaque storytelling and sudden shifts of tone, telling the tale of an outside force insinuating itself into a small community, remind me of yet another longish film: Lav Diaz's Mula sa Kung Ano Ang Noon (From What is Before, 2014), where the Philippine government, poised to declare Martial Law, stages a dress rehearsal in a small town. Same 'urban types clash with rural folk' comedy, only some of the townspeople are already collaborators-- not out of profit but out of a sense of sheer malevolent mischief-- and the result isn't so much evil as it is apocalyptic, the death of Filipino communal values as we know it. A pairing would be fascinating, to highlight how much the two filmmakers differ from and resemble each other-- Hamaguchi oblique and personal, Diaz direct and allegorical (in an interview Hamaguchi recalls having met Diaz but making no further contact-- and presumably having no further interest-- in him).
Hamaguchi seems to know the exact moment an audience's patience wears thin and cuts a second or two before; Diaz seems to like stretching our patience past snapping point, as if attempting to force us into developing a consciousness paced at a more geological scale. Both have made a horror film of course, but each work lands differently: Hamaguchi's is like the ghost of an image that haunts you for years, Diaz's like a dystopian nightmare that you struggle to wake out of, for years.
5.22.24
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