Following the quiet, melancholic rhythm of Drive My Car, director Ryusuke Hamaguchi returns with Evil Does Not Exist—a meditative, haunting film that has earned the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival, along with Best Film at the Asian Film Awards and London Film Festival. Much like his previous work, this is not a film for the casual viewer. It unfolds slowly, thoughtfully, exploring the subtle but escalating clash between humanity and nature.
Note: The following contains plot spoilers
A Somber Opening Scene
The film opens with a long, slow take—pure “slow cinema.” The camera gently pans upward through barren winter trees against a pale sky, accompanied by a mournful violin. Even if viewers don’t immediately grasp the significance, the tone is clear: melancholy, bleakness, and emptiness will pervade the entire experience.
The Battle Between Nature and Man
The story takes place in a quiet mountain village where locals live in harmony with nature. The opening scenes linger on the serene beauty of Japan’s forests—dense brown woods, snow-draped peaks, golden leaves mixing with white snow on the forest floor, and crystalline streams untouched by human presence. This is not just setting—it is the film’s true protagonist.
Life in this peaceful village is disrupted when a company arrives to introduce an eco-tourism “glamping” project. For those unfamiliar, glamping—short for “glamorous camping”—promises a luxurious experience in nature, with modern amenities and support staff. While trendy and increasingly popular in mountain areas across Vietnam and elsewhere, this project draws concern from the villagers.
Interestingly, the villagers aren’t entirely opposed to development—they simply reject the current plan. The proposed septic system would sit upstream from their water source, and campfires could spark wildfires. On the company’s side, cost concerns and looming deadlines (linked to subsidies) prevent any meaningful revisions to their plans.
Thus, the tension builds. Representing the villagers is Takumi, a father with a kind and perceptive daughter. On the corporate side are two employees—one a former artist manager, the other an ex-nurse—tasked with persuading the locals to accept the project.
The Complexity of Human Nature
Hamaguchi, as in Drive My Car, reveals depth through dialogue. In a quiet car ride, the two corporate reps—initially cast as antagonists—share their inner doubts. Neither is truly passionate about their roles. Their resentment invites sympathy, offering viewers a more layered view of their humanity.
They eventually ask Takumi to be their advisor, hoping his influence can sway the villagers. Yet their intentions are clear—they’re trying to co-opt him, not collaborate. Takumi is respected by the community. If he agrees, so will they.
But Takumi is immovable. He loves the land like a father loves his child. He collects spring water for ramen, grieves over a young deer killed in the forest. Instead of being persuaded, he begins to shift their perspective. Through his quiet way of life, he offers them a glimpse of another kind of richness—one rooted in nature, not profit.
A Bittersweet Betrayal
Just when it seems a peaceful resolution is possible, Takahashi—the male corporate rep—reveals his true priorities. At times, he seems like a boy in awe of the wilderness. Other times, he’s coldly pragmatic, chasing only what benefits him. When Takumi asks what will happen to the deer if the glamping site is built, Takahashi casually replies, “They’ll go somewhere else.” In that moment, Takumi understands: Takahashi will never change.
A Tragic and Ambiguous Ending
This realization leads to the film’s shocking and cryptic conclusion. Many viewers are left confused: Why does Takumi kill Takahashi, when they’ve grown so close? Takumi is shown as gentle, thoughtful—Takahashi, while selfish, isn’t evil.
But remember what Takumi said about the deer: “They’re not dangerous. They avoid people. They only attack when wounded or when defending their young.” Two things push Takumi over the edge:
- The immediate cause: Takahashi’s clumsy attempt to save Takumi’s daughter during a deer encounter results in her death. Though well-meaning, Takahashi proves he doesn’t understand nature, despite Takumi’s warnings. His ignorance costs a life.
- The deeper cause: Takumi—and his village—are like the deer. Cornered, hunted, with no way out. The project looms, backed by corporate money and political power. Takumi knows he cannot stop it. He acts like the deer would—striking back when left with no other choice.
The Real Conflict: Is Evil Real?
At its core, the film isn’t about good vs. evil. It’s about the clash between nature and humanity. Countless films have shown humans battling nature—disasters, wild animals, survival. But here, nature is the victim, and humans the threat.
Nature has no voice, no agency. It can only nourish the people who depend on it—and trust them to defend it. This film challenges us to reflect on how tourism and human expansion affect our ecosystems. The issues in the film mirror real-life concerns: glamping developments in Sapa, Dalat, Tam Dao; the controversial seawall project in Ha Long Bay; and the concrete encroachment in Cat Ba. How far can we push nature before it breaks?
And yet, no one in the film is truly evil. No one sets out to destroy. People want comfort, experience, connection with nature—but fear its wildness. So companies step in to “help,” and in doing so, they damage. This conflict transcends good and evil. That’s why the film is titled Evil Does Not Exist.
Nature’s Imagery and Haunting Music
The film’s visual language is built on contrast. Peaceful, pristine forests are set against sorrowful violin music. The soundtrack evokes the mood of Max Richter’s On the Nature of Daylight—achingly beautiful, yet somber. Often, the score cuts off abruptly, replaced by the quiet sounds of real life—rustling leaves, flowing water. These simple sounds are elevated, asking us to listen more closely to the world around us.
Return to the Opening Scene: Humanity’s Perspective on Nature
The film’s opening shot is one of its most profound: a ground-level view of the sky, framed by tall trees. Only later do we understand—this is not nature looking at us. This is us, gazing up at something vast, untouchable.
The final scene mirrors this, but with the night sky and a ghostly moon. Nature hasn’t changed. It remains, mysterious and dangerous, like a wounded animal ready to strike when pushed too far.
