Evil Does Not | Exist

Hamaguchi complicates this binary by refusing to demonize the corporate agents. Takahashi and his colleague, Mayuzumi, are not greedy industrialists; they are overworked Tokyo employees sent to do a dirty job. A significant portion of the film follows their bumbling attempts to sell the project to the villagers. In a crucial town hall scene, the residents do not scream or protest violently. Instead, they ask precise, patient questions about wastewater and fire risk. The true antagonist is not the messenger but the system of “impact assessment” itself—a language that reduces a living ecosystem to a checklist. Evil, the film suggests, is the bureaucratic abstraction that allows a person to build a septic tank upstream without ever drinking the water.

Hamaguchi’s title, then, is a provocation. To say “evil does not exist” is not to deny moral responsibility. It is to argue that evil is not a substance one possesses like a tumor or a birthmark. Instead, evil is a failure of relationship —between parent and child, between human and land, between intention and consequence. The film echoes Hannah Arendt’s concept of the “banality of evil”: the idea that the worst atrocities are not committed by monsters but by ordinary people who stop thinking about the effects of their actions. In Mizubiki, no one wakes up wanting to destroy the forest. But the forest is destroyed anyway, and a child dies, because the chain of listening was broken somewhere upstream. Evil Does Not Exist

In Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s 2023 film Evil Does Not Exist , the title functions not as a metaphysical declaration but as a haunting question. The film, which follows a small Japanese hamlet, Mizubiki, as it resists a “glamping” development, refuses to offer a villain in a black hat. Instead, it argues that evil is not an inherent substance or a demonic force; it is a rupture —a catastrophic failure of equilibrium, humility, and attentiveness. By examining the relationship between nature, capital, and human carelessness, the film posits that evil exists only as the absence of listening, a void where consequences are ignored until they become irreversible. Hamaguchi complicates this binary by refusing to demonize

The first layer of the film’s argument is ecological: evil does not reside in the forest or the animals, but in the human refusal to recognize interdependence. The protagonist, Takumi, lives a simple life gathering water and chopping wood, attuned to the rhythms of the natural world. He teaches his daughter, Hana, to identify plants and follow deer trails. In this setting, there is no malice. The deer do not attack out of spite; the trees do not fall out of vengeance. When a corporate representative, Takahashi, arrives to sell a luxury camping site, the conflict is not between good and evil but between attention and extraction . The corporate plan involves a septic system that will fail in winter and a generator that will hum through the night—details that the company dismisses as minor. Here, evil begins to take shape not as a person, but as a process: the process of overlooking the particular in favor of the abstract. In a crucial town hall scene, the residents

The film’s devastating climax—ambiguous and shocking—seals this thesis. Without spoiling the final sequence, it is enough to say that Takumi, who has embodied patient coexistence throughout the film, finds himself in a moment of sudden, primal rupture. A character is injured; panic ensues; and in a disorienting reversal, the gentle father performs an act that can only be described as violence. The screen goes black. The credits roll over a discordant guitar drone. Critics have debated whether Takumi commits murder or a desperate rescue, but the ambiguity is the point. Evil does not pre-exist in Takumi’s soul. It emerges from a chain of carelessness—a delayed ambulance, a lost child, a corporate decision made months ago in a Tokyo conference room. The evil is not the man; it is the accumulated weight of small, passive ruptures that finally collapse into tragedy.