Hitoshi Omika in Evil Does Not Exist (Sideshow/Janus Films)

Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s latest film begins and ends with similar overhead traveling shots of treetops, the first against the backdrop of daylight, and the latter against a darker, pre-dawn sky. While this would suggest a neat symmetry, the narrative that unfolds between these two poles is anything but.

As reflected by its wintry setting, Evil Does Not Exist is a chillier, more enigmatic work than Hamaguchi’s two previous features, the three-hour Haruki Murakami adaptation Drive My Car and the omnibus Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy (both 2021). What begins as a seemingly placid ecological fable gradually gains darker tones, culminating in what at first blush feels like a shocking, rug-pulling ending, but on further reflection proves to have been hinted at by foreboding elements earlier.

The camera closely observes the daily actions of Takumi (Hitoshi Omika) as he gathers and chops firewood, collects water from a stream, and picks wild wasabi from the forest near his house. He lives in Mizubiki, a rural hamlet near Tokyo. He’s a single father to eight-year-old Hana (Ryo Nishikawa), whom he often forgets to pick up from school on time, so absorbed he is in his solitary activities. Takumi’s movements are often accompanied by composer Eiko Ishibashi’s string and electronic score. (This project originated a silent film to accompany Ishibashi’s live performances of a composition entitled Gift.)

Takumi’s ordered, idyllic existence, as well as that of his friends and neighbors in Mizubiki, is threatened by a glamping (glamorous camping) project to be developed by a conglomerate for Tokyo tourists. The company assembles a town hall meeting for locals to voice their opinions. This occasions an expertly staged and acted scene that showcases Hamaguchi’s great skill in filming group gatherings that he’s exhibited throughout his career. The residents’ main concerns are about the placement of a septic tank that will pollute the community’s water, as well as the risk of wildfires as a result of unsupervised campsites.

The company has sent two representatives—Takahashi (Ryuji Kosaka) and Mayuzumi (Ayaka Shibutani)—who prove to be ill-prepared for the strength and passion of the locals’ objections. After they return to their boss and unsuccessfully try to persuade him to delay or significantly alter the project, they’re sent back to the village with a bottle of liquor and a job offer to Takumi as a project caretaker. A lengthy conversation in a car (another Hamaguchi skill strength) reveals Takahashi and Mayuzumi to be far more than just faceless corporate shills, but nuanced characters with their own frustrations and thwarted ambitions.

Throughout, Hamaguchi drops elements of dark foreboding: the sound of hunters’ gunshots in the distance; the jagged, abruptly cut-offs of Ishibashi’s score; a deer carcass lying in the woods. These disturbing hints become fully realized in dramatic events later on—a direct result of Takumi’s already established forgetfulness—and a final action by Takumi that appears to be contrary to this quiet man’s character in the most shocking way.

That ending invites us to seriously contemplate the possible meaning of the film’s title. If evil indeed doesn’t exist, is this a comforting thought or not? The denouement, as well as everything that occurs before it, would very much suggest the negative. In contrast to the moral clarity and certainly that would accompany the existence of evil, this work suggests a more disturbingly muddled view of the world, one in which cruel indifference rules instead of cosmic justice. As unsettling and divisive as the film may be, one can’t help but admire its bold refusal to give us easy answers or false assurances.