The remake echoes the intricate and bleak atmosphere of the Danish thriller from two years prior, shedding its Euro-art-house veneer for a typical Blumhouse-style thrill ride that's guaranteed to leave audiences buzzing. It crept up on us unnoticed, but the American adaptation of a foreign film no longer carries the stigma of failed imagination that once lingered. In fact, it's almost a lost art in today's era of franchise-driven cinema. The question lingers: how does one transform an overseas cult hit into a standalone multiplex sensation? Blumhouse's latest offering, "Speak No Evil," which shamelessly borrows its title, premise, and even its gags from Christian Taldrip's festival darling from two years back, serves as a reminder that the solution is often straightforward: Close it out as a crowd-pleaser, with James McAvoy flexing his muscles after an 80-minute delightful romp through the dark side.
Just like its predecessor, writer-director James Watkins' remake delves into the extreme lengths a couple will go to uphold their faith in humanity's kindness. Americans Ben and Louise (Scoot McNairy and Mackenzie Davis, reuniting charmingly after their stint in AMC's "Halt and Catch Fire") are initially seen languidly vacationing in Italy with their precocious 11-year-old daughter Agnes (Alix West Lefler). Their trip takes a turn for the better when they cross paths with Paddy (McAvoy) and his wife Ciara (Aisling Franciosi), a boisterous British couple who make up for their mute, withdrawn son Ant (Dan Hough) with their effusive nature.
Weeks later, back in their dreary, jobless lives in London, Ben and Louise receive an invitation to Paddy and Ciara's rustic farmhouse for a weekend getaway. It's an extended stay with people who are barely acquaintances, yet they're the closest friends Ben and Louise have managed to find since moving to Europe. Watkins introduces Paddy's dusty, dilapidated property with a disarming drone shot, capturing an angle that could easily mistake it for a war-torn landscape. The message is clear: This place is not to be trifled with. The cramped quarters, adorned with ugly artwork and soiled blankets, hold an unwelcome surprise: Agnes must share a bedroom with Ant. Ben and Louise brush off the awkwardness, but it's merely the prelude to a grueling ordeal.
Taldrip's original "Speak No Evil" was a tightly controlled examination of the unspoken rules of polite society and how compliance can stifle our innate fight-or-flight response. While this remake starts with a similar vein of tension, McAvoy's menacing grin, dripping with malice, swiftly dismantles any semblance of social decorum. Instead, the film embraces Paddy's crude behavior and morphs into a comedy about a failing marriage crumbling beneath the weight of a bizarre vacation host. Though it's not his usual fare, McAvoy proves he can go over-the-top with the best of them, his performances in "Filth" and "Split" being testaments to his versatility.
As the irredeemable Paddy, McAvoy serves as the film's driving force, even if the screenplay doesn't delve deep enough to define his aggressive persona. His politically incorrect musings on Louise's vegetarianism, his misogynistic undertones while discussing his marriage with Ben, and even a fleeting reference to pedophilic tendencies, all contribute to a jarring but incoherent portrait of deviance. Despite this, McAvoy elevates the scenes with memorable antics—like a pantomime of fellatio during dinner or a meticulously choreographed "Cotton Eye Joe" dance—but "Speak No Evil" fails to sustain the tension his performance generates, hurtling towards a predictable conclusion.
In contrast, the film's true standout performance comes from McNairy, who rises to the occasion as the punchline. As "Speak No Evil" exposes the cracks in its central marriage, Ben's wounded masculinity emerges as the cornerstone of their inertia. And when the remake veers away from the original's bleak ending, venturing into "Straw Dogs" territory with British rednecks, barricaded hallways, and a Yankee proving his manhood, the violence feels even more shallow than the preceding comedy of bad manners. But it's the paralyzing fear that McNairy imbues between the gunshots, rendering it truly pathetic, that solidifies and enhances the film's winning comedic sensibility.
