I find Evil Does Not Exist the most appropriate film of Hamaguchi to compare, because both examine the structures laid down by late capitalism, and the events in Evil Does Not Exist feel like physical manifestations of Mari’s whiteboard sketches. Hamaguchi takes radical leaps of faith in both films, but in polar opposite forms. The long conversations between Marie and Mari propose a Tower of Babel fantasy: they can communicate succinctly and efficiently and work out ideas without friction caused by language differences. It’s almost a divine connection as inexplicable as the disjunctions of Evil Does Not Exist, while also serving as the antithesis of its central concern: that irreconcilable differences in both society and nature will forever lead to the failure of communication.
The film’s style also addresses a kind of borderless fantasy, transitioning from long European-style tracking shots following the two walking along the shore, to a kind of découpage frequently implemented by classic Japanese masters like Ozu and Naruse when the two sit down next to the river, and the exchanges shift from academic curiosity to personal inquiries.
Like what the film admits itself, it is only able to carry out its own fantasy – turning the impossible into the possible – by being in its own small, first-world urban circle that continues to shrink. And more than anything, I find the film’s recourse to this discourse rather tepid. More than Hamaguchi’s other works, this film is much more eager for resolutions; it is thus much more straightforwardly sentimental (that may be why I see so many people who were lukewarm with some of his previous works be absolutely taken by this). It sort of sets a goal by the halfway point and races to its finish and bulldozes over every character in its way. Sophie is the most obvious example; the exploration of her character depth is upended by a standing ovation. But more disappointing is how the intrigue surrounding the two main characters’ characterizations or intentions is reduced to lukewarm pleasantness due to the film’s deterministic nature.
Hamaguchi’s formal brilliance can be felt throughout the film. The play with time is extremely impressive: the seamless transitions from afternoon to nighttime after the two step out of the theatre are a subtle and masterful command of both setting and performance rhythms; and you can say the same for compressing the whiteboard scene into the span of time it takes for a pot of coffee to boil, or Mari’s emotional monologue about her best friend while young into the 2:30 wait for instant noodles. He knows when to cut and when to have the actor face the camera directly. However, the frictions – which some may call unevenness – in his previous works are completely lost here, especially when it is gunning for that emotional payoff at the end.
The moment of miracle emerges at the intersection of physical workshop and theatrical production, heavily featured in both Happy Hour and Drive My Car, with the latter also grounding its catharsis in performance art. But in both previous works, they conveyed a rawness tied to the idea that the performance onscreen is a documentary of an actor’s body. Whether it is seasoned theatre actors reciting lines or amateurs doing silly movements in a workshop, an exciting ambiguity remains about whether they are acting from natural/professional instinct or whether deeper, nebulous emotions and intentions percolate beneath the facade. Here, I struggle to find the friction between the idea of touch and support established by the workshop and what is ultimately being shown at the end.The elderly feel more like props arbitrarily set up to perform said “miracle”, and the anticipation and release are accomplished purely through Hamaguchi’s formal prowess instead of what the subjects manage to deliver between the slivers of real and pretension. Of course I would cry when Tao Okamoto looks into the camera and says “I want to live”. But I can’t say whether the film organically reaches that point for me.
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