He won the Golden Lion in Venice last year. Now Hamaguchi's laconic, suggestive ode to nature is coming to cinemas
Can a music video become a didactic nature conservation film, a sensitive social parable, and also a shocking family drama? Why not, Ryusuke Hamaguchi may have thought when he shot video material for the composer Eiko Ishibashi in a Japanese mountain village two years ago that was actually only intended to accompany her live performances. This collaboration resulted in Evil Does Not Exist, a hybrid feature film that brings together seemingly opposite genres and tells of a closeness to nature, absurd tourism projects and the love of a single father for his daughter.
The story behind it is important because it marks a turning point in the Japanese director's work. Hamaguchi is known for wordy, literary material. His last film, Drive My Car, was based on a short story by the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami and, like almost all of his works, was set in an urban environment. Evil Does Not Exist begins, however, with a journey through deserted, frosty nature. With the camera perspective pointing upwards, we glide past trees that stretch their bare branches into the gray sky. It is the eyes of Hana (Ryo Nishkawa), an eight-year-old girl, through which we view the wintry forest. She stalks unsuspectingly through the snowy landscape, strokes tree trunks, watches deer in the undergrowth. Evil Does Not Exist beginnt dagegen mit einer Fahrt durch menschenleere frostige Natur. Die Kameraperspektive nach oben gerichtet gleiten wir vorbei an Bäumen, die ihre kahlen Äste in den grauen Himmel strecken. Es sind die Augen von Hana (Ryo Nishkawa), einem achtjährigen Mädchen, mit denen wir den winterlichen Wald betrachten. Arglos stapft sie durch die verschneite Landschaft, streichelt Baumstämme, beobachtet Rehe im Unterholz.
Hana lives with her father Takumi (Hitoshi Omika) in a mountain village in Japan. He is a quiet craftsman who takes on a variety of tasks in the community: drawing spring water for the local noodle restaurant, chopping wood, collecting wild herbs. He also looks after his daughter with wordless affection. When she just runs off after school instead of waiting for her father to pick her up in the car, he doesn't scold her, but instead goes to meet her in the forest and gives her a piggyback ride home.
Ryusuke films the out-door scenes from a distance in long, quiet shots. At first there is almost no dialogue. Instead, the observations of nature are accompanied by Ishibashi's wistful string and piano sounds. Then there's a hard cut, the lavish music stops and we end up at a community meeting where an absurd tourism project is being discussed. A company from Tokyo wants to build a “glamping resort” in the middle of the forest, a luxury campsite for wealthy city dwellers who are looking for relaxation in a beautiful natural setting. Two PR people came to answer questions from citizens. The villagers express their concerns that too many tourists could harm nature, pollute its water and increase the risk of forest fires with the utmost politeness. And are fobbed off with fluffy PR phrases. It quickly becomes clear: the glamping entrepreneurs are not really interested in dialogue or nature conservation, but only in plain profit.
The mood of the film changes with the long dialogue sequence, which is staged like a re-enactment of real civil protests. Hamaguchi turns to people struggling to use nature properly. The quiet forest through which we initially roamed is not an untouched paradise, but rather a human-run enclave. With the usual conflicts of interest. He shows the culture clash in hints, not in major arguments. There are the mysterious gun shots from some invisible hunters in the forest, there is the far too red down jacket of the glamping representative, who is slowly beginning to doubt his mission. By the way, we also learn that many of the villagers haven't lived in the area that long, but are themselves city dropouts and are therefore allergic to the tourism project that threatens their new lifestyle.
Before the story completely drifts into a didactic social discourse and pits mindful country life against hedonistic city culture, the film takes another surprising turn. And causes the carefully constructed plot framework to collapse with a crash. Suddenly a child goes missing. Hana ran into the forest alone again and never made it home. The whole village helps in the search, including the two strangers from the city. The mood shifts to psychological thriller. We are back in the quiet forest, by the frozen lake, over which the full moon pours its cold light. Blood drips from a thorn bush, Hana stares at a wounded deer. Shortly afterwards, two people are dead. A desperate father's sudden act? Or maybe just a shimmering fever dream. In any case, it's a shock that even Ishibashi's beautiful music can't really absorb.
It's not about romantic glorification of nature or moralizing eco-activism after all, even though Hamaguchi takes up these topics and gives them a special vibe. In this film, the forest is above all a space of longing. And catalyst for basic emotions. With the surreal ending we are abruptly thrown back to the most basic of all cinematic experiences: it's all just an illusion! The director had already warned us with the title of the film: There is no such thing as evil. And not a clear message either.