‘Evil Does Not Exist’ - Review
I do not like being asked what I do for work. I’m not embarrassed about my job. On the contrary, I’d say I’m pretty grateful for it. It pays decently and the experience is great. Usually when I tell people what I do, I’m met with some noises of curiosity and intrigue. I don’t really pay attention to the noises anymore because no matter what, they almost always culminate in the same dreaded question: “What do you actually do?” As much as I’d love to listen, I know what’s coming next, and I’ve already begun to prepare my response, rehearsing my monologue, mentally practicing the same speech I’ve recited hundreds of times before. But I still practice it because one day, I will finally be able to convince myself that I work a real job; one day, I’ll delude myself that anyone in the corporate world actually knows what they do. Today is not that day.
I don’t hate my job. I enjoy the work I do; it’s challenging, and I like my coworkers. During the workday, it’s easy to forget that there’s a world beyond the confines of Microsoft Teams. But every once in a while, when I am not dedicating all of my mental real estate to “value-driven problem-solving,” I am forced to confront the truth. One day, I will kill all semblances of those nagging ideations; one day, I will drink the Kool-Aid. Today is not that day. Every day, I wake up and there are emails. There are PowerPoint slides and Excel sheets. There are things to do. Tasks, vampiric in nature, swirling through my day, vacuuming up slithers of my humanity. Of course, I am being dramatic — it isn’t all terrible. At the end of the day, I get to watch a movie. I get to leave video calls behind and find escapism in film.
One hundred movies into 2024, my commitment to escapism has failed. It brings me no joy to admit it, but my favorite scene of 2024 so far is set in the confines of a work video call meeting. Juxtaposed against the rural calmness set in the introduction of Evil Does Not Exist, a character lurks within the bounds of a virtual meeting. Seemingly omnipresent yet physically removed from the world he destroys, the consultant exists behind a veil of screens and spreadsheets, manipulating numbers and narratives without a second thought. Ryûsuke Hamaguchi captures his essence (and ultimately what the film means to me) in this single video-call-centered scene.
Evil Does Not Exist follows a talent agency looking to set up a glamping (for those who don’t know: glamorous + camping) site in a remote Japanese village, sparking resistance from the tight-knit community and raising questions about environmentalism and corporate greed. The film’s protagonist, Takumi, is a widowed jack-of-all-trades portrayed with understated complexity by Hitoshi Omika. Takumi's life is ritualistic and peaceful as he spends time with his daughter and nature, developing a symbiotic relationship with his village. But his peace is upended when he learns of the agency's plans, forcing him to confront not only the threat to his village but also his place in the world. He is a man living in a world torn between tradition and progress, duty and desire. Alongside Takumi, disillusioned company employees sent to sell the glamping concept to the townspeople grapple with their own complicity. These characters serve as a mirror, reflecting the complexities of human nature and the ethical ambiguities of modern life. Unfortunately however, they all remain puppets to the consultant.
The consultant occupies the screen for less than ten minutes, but his impact looms over the remainder of the film. He is a chilling reminder of the dangers of reducing complex ecosystems and human lives to mere data points. Far removed from the tangible consequences of his actions, the consultant wields power with a callous disregard for the communities he affects. He speaks in the language of optimization and margins, his words echoing hollow in the face of real-world devastation. Despite his physical absence, the consultant looms large over the narrative, casting a shadow of uncertainty and unease. His actions reverberate through the village, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.
I’ve been the consultant before. I’m guilty of getting lost in the cogs of complex Excel models that have completely shifted the structures of companies far removed. I’ve fallen into the trap of being detached from the actual impacts of my work, getting lost in the sauce of numbers and corporate speak. It’s easy to become him. There’s no question that evil does indeed exist—not in the traditional sense of sin like Biblical greed, but rather in the forms of detachment that allow us to ignore the ubiquity of our world.
There’s a scene where two characters (the aforementioned disillusioned company employees) briefly sigh and declare that “the pandemic has really changed things.” Despite being inundated with any conversation surrounding the pandemic (i.e. how much things have changed, the new normal — all eye-roll inducing levels of discourse), at this moment, coupled with the smooth flow of Evil Does Not Exist, it makes sense. The pandemic really did change things. Beyond the surface level of loneliness, disease, isolation, and whatever else has been talked to death, the pandemic has made it significantly easier to detach. It has exposed how advantageous it is for the corporate world to unfasten itself from the rest of the world, reducing entire ecosystems and people into numbers. It taught us to live in our own spheres. It's a chilling realization, witnessing the ease with which decisions are made behind the facade of Excel sheets and consultant jargon, often at the expense of genuine human connection and environmental responsibility.
On an objective level, the consultant’s character in Evil Does Not Exist is a stark warning against the unchecked power of those who operate from the shadows, manipulating lives and landscapes with impunity. Hamaguchi's portrayal sharply critiques modern corporate practices that prioritize efficiency and profitability over the sanctity of human life and environmental sustainability.
On a personal level, the consultant is a sobering slap in the face. He’s a reminder of who I once was and of who I must never allow to resurface. More importantly, he serves as a stark reminder of how easy it is to fall into the trap of corporate detachment. The current system we work in rewards indifference in the name of efficiency, and the pandemic has only exacerbated this phenomenon.
As I type this, it sounds beyond dumb, as I’m stating something really obvious: Detachment is bad. Sometimes all you need is a meditative collection of stunning cinematography to break it through. In its understated poetic beauty, Evil Does Not Exist is not just a film you watch but rather a film you walk with, a movie to grow with, and a work of art that I’m excited to continue revisiting over the course of my career. For me, it’s a reminder of our capability to resist the allure of corporate detachment and reclaim our humanity in the face of broken systems. Only by acknowledging the interconnectedness of all living beings and our planet's fragility can we overcome the thirst for efficiency.And that’s why I love this movie: It’s a reminder to always stay connected to the work. I’ve thought about finding a new job, and maybe, one day, that time will come. But I know it’s possible to thrive in my career and stay grounded. And even if I’m stuck in Microsoft Teams and spreadsheet land, working long hours disconnected from my impact, there’s one thing that will always pull me back to reality: a good, real, and special movie.