When I was getting my degree in English literature, one of my favorite genres was the comedy of errors. This was a term applied mostly to a specific period of time in the United Kingdom covering works such as those by Molière, among others. The idea behind it was that it satirized and interrogated societal (specifically high society) norms and social conventions of the time. Since then, it’s been applied to a subset of movies that typically force opposing people together, typically of different societal classes, in uncomfortable situations where people struggle to remain polite.

While it’s typically associated with comedies, sometimes a film will come around that smartly juxtaposes the cringe and anxiety-inducing humor with the horror genre. Probably the most famous example of this is Michael Haneke’s Funny Games, which puts the concept of politeness right on the villains, who remain courteous, kind and, most importantly, High Society, as they enact horrific atrocities on a rich family. I thought about Funny Games a lot while watching Christian Tafdrup’s upsetting Speak No Evil, a movie that weaponizes politeness and straddles the line between dark comedy and unspeakable horror.

Speak No Evil opens with Bjørn (Morten Burian), his wife Louise (Sidsel Siem Koch) and their daughter Agnes (Liva Forsberg) on vacation abroad in Italy. The place they’re staying seems to emphasize guests intermingling with each other and, at dinner, everyone comes together at one long table to eat, drink, socialize and be merry. As Bjørn and Louise walk down to the table, they joke about how they hope they aren’t placed next to their previous guests because they’re tired of hearing their stories. But Bjørn and Louise do make some acquaintances in the form of Patrick (Fedja van Huêt) and Karin (Karina Smulders), and their son Abel (Marius Damslev), who has a congenital defect and is missing his tongue. Patrick tells them he’s a doctor and immediately their socially equal friendship status seems sealed.

After the trip, Bjørn’s family returns to Denmark and they eventually receive a postcard from Patrick and Karin, telling them how much fun they had and inviting them to stay for a weekend at their home in the Dutch countryside. Over dinner with their friends, Bjørn and Louise talk about the friends they made on their vacation and wonder if they should go visit them. They’re very nice and he’s a doctor, Bjørn tells their friends. “It would be impolite to decline,” they remind Bjørn and Louise.

Besides…“What’s the worst that could happen?”

The audience already knows the worst could happen because, from the opening shot, Speak No Evil’s score wants you to be uncomfortable, as if something bad could happen to Bjørn and his family any minute on their vacation to Italy or back at home in Denmark or on a ferry to visit their new friends’ home. Even before anything horrific happens, Speak No Evil composer Sune Kølster sets the scene with ominous and slightly bombastic music. Normal, everyday actions such as the family driving down a road or lounging by a pool or visiting their Italian village is tinged with the ominous music that just seeps in and lingers. What’s interesting is that when horrific things do happen, the score becomes muted or sometimes is gone completely.

When they arrive at Patrick and Karin’s home, they find them to be just as congenial and kind as before, welcoming them into their rustic home. They’ve made up the guest room for Bjørn and Louise, and made a small bed in Abel’s room for Agnes to sleep. This last point causes Bjørn and Louise to give each other the side eye and Louise tells Agnes in Danish, “We’ll figure it out.” Instead of addressing it with Patrick and Karin, Agnes slides into her parents’ bed that night.

What follows, at least initially, is almost a dramedy where Bjørn and Louise’s lines are constantly being pressured and pushed by Patrick and Karin. It’s as if they are daring Bjørn and Louise to not be civil. When alone, Louise confides to Bjørn that she doesn’t feel comfortable in the house, but when faced with the Dutch family, the last thing they want is to come across as rude. And so the dance continues, as Kølster’s score roars in the background.

Bjørn and Louise believe they’re in the home of Polite Society and so the microaggression played against them, such as Patrick continually ignoring that she is vegetarian, start to build up but neither of them want to be rude. What’s so insidious about Speak No Evil (which, by the way, is an incredible title filled with so much meaning and metaphor) is that when Bjørn and Louise eventually snap, their politeness is turned against them. Weaponized in such a fascinating and anxiety-inducing way. So that when things start to turn more acerbic, the line between civility and discourtesy gets closer and closer. It all builds to a frightening climax that savvy audience members will easily see coming but instead of deflating the tension it increases it as we watch a trainwreck happen in slow motion, unable to stop it. Speak No Evil is brutal, but it saves its sharpest barbs for the third act, when it reveals all of the maliciousness that hides just under the veneer of polite society.

Which brings me back to Funny Games. Both films operate with dramatic irony, as the audience knows that the words being spoken do not match up with either the actions being taken or the interior monologue going through the character’s heads. And just like with Haneke’s disturbing film, Speak No Evil eviscerates high society and its ideas of politeness. Some of it doesn’t completely work, such as the way the film repurposes the famous line from The Strangers in a way that’s too on-the-nose and unnecessary. It’s also a film that lives because of its ending, which will linger in the mind for awhile. It takes a bit too long to get to the point and the reveals, and some of the characters’ actions will probably try some audience’s patience. But Speak No Evil has something to say about the artificial politeness humanity uses as almost a shield and how ineffective it truly is when faced with people who are able to weaponize it.