Evil Does Not Exist (2023)

Evil Does Not Exist is the kind of drama that sneaks up on you: a quiet film with the confidence to let wind in the trees, routine labor, and small talk carry the weight of big questions about how we “use” nature. Ryusuke Hamaguchi turns a simple village dispute into something mesmerizing, patiently drawing characters who feel lived-in rather than scripted, and photographing the winter forest with a calm beauty that’s almost hypnotic. The tone is measured and intimate, but there’s a faint, growing unease under the surface—as if the landscape itself is listening—and it culminates in moments that linger long after the credits. If you need constant plot fireworks, this may feel too restrained, but if you’re open to a haunting, deeply human film that rewards attention, it’s absolutely worth the trip.

Evil Does Not Exist is clearly aiming for a quiet, observational clash between rural life and corporate “nature tourism,” using small routines, landscape, and tension in conversation to say something bigger about responsibility and consequence. The problem is it’s deliberately slow and withholding, so if you need clear motivations, plot momentum, or tidy thematic statements, you may find it opaque to the point of feeling contrived rather than profound. It also builds toward an ending that’s intentionally oblique and can land as either haunting or simply exasperating, depending on your patience for ambiguity. If you’re in the mood for mood, atmosphere, and a subtle moral pressure-cooker rather than a conventional drama payoff, it has real craft and a quietly unsettling edge—but it’s not a “sit back and be entertained” kind of film.