“They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.” Well, sure James, but mine never asked me if I preferred folded or scrunched toilet paper, so it’s not all bad.
The fear of discourtesy or impropriety (hell, just plain saying something stupid or ignorant) is a powerful impediment when it comes to functioning in an agreeable and hopefully harmonious social scenario. Knowing you may or may not have just insulted your hosts can be just as psychologically taxing as a pistol digging into your temple – ok, ALMOST. 16 years ago, Eden Lake writer/director James Watkins proved in uncompromising detail that you just shouldn’t go on vacation. With his adaptation of the 2022 Danish production, he seems to have come around a bit. Sure, you can go on vacation, but choose your friends wisely. And FUCK HOPPY!
Seriously, that fuckin’ bunny almost got them all iced, but as someone who had a security blanket of their own a la Linus, I can relate. One of the joys of slow burn psychological thrillers is wondering when the other shoe will drop, or in this case, whether we’ll get another dance routine set to the soothing tones of Rednex. Watkins’ devious, playful screenplay toys with his audience’s expectations, so much so that even a secondary character questions the need to “play with your food.” I’ve been on a few cruises and even spent some time at a couple all-inclusives in my teens before everything became prohibitively expensive. Believe me, having to “make nice” with strangers is no picnic, especially when you just wanna relax and grab a drink by the pool. Watkins and his pitch-perfect cast have a ball navigating the paper-thin divide between affability and offense, so once the hammer comes down, the explosion spreads and burns like a freshly bottled 150 proof Calvados.
McAvoy’s success in mainstream blockbusters has allowed him to stay relevant, yet he’s always had an edge, even way back in his breakthrough, The Last King of Scotland (NICHOLAS! You did not PERSUAAADE ME!). Here, he's an absolute beast of uninhibited, testosterone-fueled friendliness whose uncomfortably physical relationship with Aisling Franciosi’s bewitching hostess makes matters all the more awkward for the disintegrating marriage of MacKenzie Davis and Scoot McNairy. Scenes between Davis and McNairy are almost too real “She’ll hear you!” and it’s their fraught, highly-charged verbal sparring which gives Speak No Evil its emotional core and allows the twisty manipulations of the plot to remain maddeningly ambiguous. As clever kids who have to aid and outfox seemingly responsible adults, Alix West Lefler and Dan Hough do terrific work, with Hough having the extra tricky challenge of being entirely non-verbal for the duration. The sense of decorum or putting on a happy face while rolling with unpleasant episodes is key to the creeping terror of SNE. Even when it’s made crystal clear what’s going on, the tension remains almost unbearable because McAvoy and Franciosi never overplay their hands. If anything, it’s the tiny touches, like an overtly sexual prank at a quiet dinner or the way McAvoy holds a stare for just a hair too long that keep everyone off-balance.
Discomfort abounds, whether it’s Franciosi targeting and then correcting Lefler’s eating habits right in front of Davis, McAvoy demanding love from Hough, or one of the most jarring, blink-and-you'll-miss-it sequences: when Davis and McNairy are quarrelling and McAvoy’s sinister puss is standing in plain sight right behind the door. Thanks to the strong character work, the film could easily have retained its cold, calculating ambiguity instead of opting for a third act actioner in the vein of Straw Dogs or even Funny Games, yet that character design also allows for moments of bravery which Watkins smartly stages without resorting to warrior-like heroism. Tim Maurice-Jones' cinematography is crisp and even the vast countryside somehow feels claustrophobic in its isolation. All the way to the appropriately vengeful ending, Speak No Evil is often an edge-of-your-seat nail-biter.
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