Director: Kaat Rybak
Writer: Kaat Rybak
Cast: Esther Noyon, Snorre Petlund
Running time: 11mins
Kaat Rybak writes in her director’s statement: “I don’t make films for everyone.”
It’s a reasonable enough disclaimer. Art is subjective, nobody is denying that, and even in the case where I absolutely hate a movie on IFL, it is fair for a director to issue the rebuttal that “of course this movie didn’t appeal to you, you aren’t a fame-hungry improv comic/Manchester United fan/subterranean gnome of questionable intent.”
The question I have for Rybak, having sat through Collateral Evil’s excruciating 11 minutes, is if this isn’t for me, then who is it for?
The story finds young ‘expat’ Michelle (Esther Noyon) beset by the kind of unsolicited house party that would have sent Bilbo Baggins to the psyche ward. A procession of three of the most irritating guests imaginable waddle uninvited into her spartan apartment, insisting that good times are ahead; before guffawing through mouths stuffed with Lays™ (other crisps are available, but Rybak’s blocking of each scene has an uncanny ability to foreground the bag at every opportunity), spraying ketchup about the place, and repeatedly insisting – amid the deafening silence – that this is, in fact, een leuk feest.
I was born in England and moved to Amsterdam when I was 26. I cannot deny that picking up the language has moved at a glacial pace – and that on occasion, the conversation in a crowded room often leaves me behind. I am also, by nature of my upbringing, painfully old fashioned when it comes to manners. The aforementioned plot should be an open-goal, when it comes to getting me invested in this plot. But somehow, Collateral Evil still manages to miss the mark by some distance – and returning to my earlier question, that’s a problem.
At the heart of this problem, is that Rybak’s writing, and pacing of the final edit, see the actors running out of road in no time at all. From the very beginning, the story is an onslaught – with Michelle bombarded with passive – or directly – aggressive barbs, in her own home, by a group of people who we never see as anything other than the most complete and contemptable of arseholes. Each of those performers is great in that role – not a moment goes by where you don’t want to punch one of them in the mouth – but if that’s all there is then they have no opportunity to escalate, and Michelle has no lesson to learn.
The crux of the plot is supposed to be that Michelle needs to learn to be more assertive in her new home, but the language barrier is standing in her way. In this scenario, the straw to break the camel’s back is supposed to be the fact that – even when they order pizza, and she tries to ask for no mushrooms in Dutch – they berate her dietary requirements. But for me, that ship has long sailed – the interminable, non-consensual feest itself has already turned the dial to 11; while the fact Michelle’s boyfriend-of-sorts, Gijs (Snorre Petlund), organised it against her wishes, is by far a worse betrayal.
The lack of finesse in this build-up seems designed to expedite our arrival at the film Rybak actually wanted to make – a hallucinatory sequence, where the cartoonishly toxic mushrooms on the pizza lead the guests (now decked out in costume store Toad hats) to angrily pursue Michelle through a forest. Between maniacal cackling, they pause to further insist it’s time she learned the language, or belittle her apparently infantile dislike of mushrooms (which we don’t even know is by choice, and not a food allergy).
The culmination of the ghastly vision finally triggers Michelle into taking control of the situation – while a little heavy-handed MacGuffin inevitably bellows the question BUT WAS IT REALLY A DREAM? into both our ears. The thing is, such was the nature of these awful people before the dream, I am not sure if it matters. Beside the nominal changes to their costumes, they aren’t really behaving any differently – barging their way into someone’s private sanctuary to attack and abuse them for their apparent entertainment. Meanwhile, despite the effects of Amsterdam’s most potent truffles supposedly authoring this segment, nothing is especially out of the ordinary. There is nothing remotely trippy which could have made this sequence thrilling, or at least fun, for us to observe – and after going through its motions, the jolt back to reality feels utterly hollow.
If you don’t feel confident in a social situation, and someone you know manifests that situation against your will, in your house, that person does not deserve to be part of your life. The same is true of someone who enters your home, and barracks you for your linguistic abilities; or who tries to force you to eat food you explicitly asked to avoid. But this is all insultingly obvious – especially to the few people who this story might actually be for. Meanwhile, front-loading the story with as much brash, obnoxious characters with no arc or redemption is so one-note, it makes this 11 minute film feel like it lasts 11 months. Collateral Evil barged its way into my living room to bark asinine platitudes at me – and I think it’s time that it left.
