"Evil Does Not Exist" offers a profoundly unique movie-watching experience. It's hard to imagine a work with more radically different narrative tones flowing into one another. It's almost miraculous that it manages to seem a cohesive whole but it does just that.
The only previous work I'd seen by writer-director Ryûsuke Hamaguchi had been "Drive My Car", an undisputedly good and "prestigious" movie that predictably won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film. As much as was admirable about that piece it felt forced and restrained. Hamaguchi, I suspected, was holding back his creative impulses and surrendering to a conventional theatricality (which, to be fair, is part of that film's theme) for the sake of wider recognition.
Except for a few echoing images of unbridled nature, no one would suspect the same filmmaker was at work with "Evil Does Not Exist" if they hadn't been informed. Here Hamaguchi unleashes his vision in an uncompromising, at moments ferocious manner.
If one is determined to define this movie in terms of genre, then it would be considered a work of magical realism, a style that I often struggle to appreciate. The closest comparison I can make is to the cinema of Apichatpong Weerasethakul, though that Thai master's magical realms are far more benevolent than that of "Evil".
Having said all that, for most of the film the tone is one that I can only describe as dry humanism. Almost a comedy, it straight-facedly pillories two of the main characters, yuppies representing a Tokyo developer trying to build a resort in a rural community, but then gradually humanizes them. Indeed, the tone grows increasingly affirmational until a sudden, unsettling turn that leads to a vaguely terrifying finale.
Composer Eiko Ishibashi, who co-conceived the story with Hamaguchi, can be considered a co-autuer with the director. The only film I can think of that owes as much to its score as does this one is "In the Mood for Love". Ishibashi's music begins and ends "Evil", sometimes reimposing itself on it assertively, almost clumsily. But the narrative comes to feel almost secondary to the score, as if it were the music's accompaniment, or perhaps an attempt to adapt this wordless music into human narrative.
One of this film's obvious themes is humanity's relationship to the natural world and its secrets and wonders. Cinematographer Yoshio Kitagawa's camera graces the terrain of the forrest and village that is the film's setting with a kind of religious reverence. Largely static images grace these rural landscapes waiting for them to reveal their secrets- or not- at their leisure. To call Kitagawa's work here cinematography feels almost wrong. This is great nature photography as captured by a motion picture camera.
My only reservation about "Evil" comes from its very uniqueness. This world is perhaps a bit too magical to seem like a commentary on our own. This, for me, is part of what makes magical-realism a tricky genre to pull off. In "Drive My Car" the performances Hamaguchi coached were very method-theatrical. Here, the director's approach to his performers is positively Bressonian. This has the effect of leaving the characters to seem, despite mostly naturalistic dialog, like ideas more than figures in which we emotionally invest (much as with Bresson's characters). In the work of Bresson, however, we are at least able to situationally relate to the characters as the events are essentially naturalistic. The combination here of monotone and mysticism does not leave room for the emotional impact the film might have had. However, if the experience of "Evil" is somewhat academic, it is also unforgettable.
The only previous work I'd seen by writer-director Ryûsuke Hamaguchi had been "Drive My Car", an undisputedly good and "prestigious" movie that predictably won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film. As much as was admirable about that piece it felt forced and restrained. Hamaguchi, I suspected, was holding back his creative impulses and surrendering to a conventional theatricality (which, to be fair, is part of that film's theme) for the sake of wider recognition.
Except for a few echoing images of unbridled nature, no one would suspect the same filmmaker was at work with "Evil Does Not Exist" if they hadn't been informed. Here Hamaguchi unleashes his vision in an uncompromising, at moments ferocious manner.
If one is determined to define this movie in terms of genre, then it would be considered a work of magical realism, a style that I often struggle to appreciate. The closest comparison I can make is to the cinema of Apichatpong Weerasethakul, though that Thai master's magical realms are far more benevolent than that of "Evil".
Having said all that, for most of the film the tone is one that I can only describe as dry humanism. Almost a comedy, it straight-facedly pillories two of the main characters, yuppies representing a Tokyo developer trying to build a resort in a rural community, but then gradually humanizes them. Indeed, the tone grows increasingly affirmational until a sudden, unsettling turn that leads to a vaguely terrifying finale.
Composer Eiko Ishibashi, who co-conceived the story with Hamaguchi, can be considered a co-autuer with the director. The only film I can think of that owes as much to its score as does this one is "In the Mood for Love". Ishibashi's music begins and ends "Evil", sometimes reimposing itself on it assertively, almost clumsily. But the narrative comes to feel almost secondary to the score, as if it were the music's accompaniment, or perhaps an attempt to adapt this wordless music into human narrative.
One of this film's obvious themes is humanity's relationship to the natural world and its secrets and wonders. Cinematographer Yoshio Kitagawa's camera graces the terrain of the forrest and village that is the film's setting with a kind of religious reverence. Largely static images grace these rural landscapes waiting for them to reveal their secrets- or not- at their leisure. To call Kitagawa's work here cinematography feels almost wrong. This is great nature photography as captured by a motion picture camera.
My only reservation about "Evil" comes from its very uniqueness. This world is perhaps a bit too magical to seem like a commentary on our own. This, for me, is part of what makes magical-realism a tricky genre to pull off. In "Drive My Car" the performances Hamaguchi coached were very method-theatrical. Here, the director's approach to his performers is positively Bressonian. This has the effect of leaving the characters to seem, despite mostly naturalistic dialog, like ideas more than figures in which we emotionally invest (much as with Bresson's characters). In the work of Bresson, however, we are at least able to situationally relate to the characters as the events are essentially naturalistic. The combination here of monotone and mysticism does not leave room for the emotional impact the film might have had. However, if the experience of "Evil" is somewhat academic, it is also unforgettable.
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