There are those who have a devout belief that M. Night
Shyamalan’s success is something predestined and hard-earned, and then there
are those who think that he’s just lucky. I’m one of the latter, I suppose.
Ignoring the early works that he made before he became a wannabe-auteur, his
films seem to operate on a principle that tells their everyman protagonists (and
the everymen sitting out there in the audience), “Even your mundane life could
contain something wondrous!” This tract is supposed to inspire in the audience
a renewed sense of wonder in the genre film, since it assumes that the audience
has outgrown since they’ve learned of the harsh realities of real life, but it
ends up not working, primarily because everyone who goes to see a genre film
does so precisely so they can forget about the sort of thing that he attempts to
introduce. Shyamalan never feels confident that we understand that the setting
for his flights of fancy is something that closely resembles reality and ends up
harping on that point endlessly. Instead of establishing his realistic fantasy
world and then diving into it to reinvigorate the generic constructs that he’s
toying with, he consistently gets stuck in neutral, leaving the audience
stranded in a place that’s neither satisfying as a fantastic or factual realm,
then pops a shock ending on them that’s supposed to make up for all of the
disappointment we feel.
A lot of folks buy into this formula, but for me it’s
wholly unsatisfying since it somehow suggests that the genre film isn’t a
worthwhile venture unless it’s being deconstructed and reinvented. I think
routine sci-fi and horror films are completely worth my time though, so for
Shyamalan to suggest that they are somehow inferior modes of entertainment that
need to be gussied up with faux-profundities, arty visuals and endless navel
gazing seems awfully condescending. Outside of a brief scare or two in The
Sixth Sense, I haven’t felt a single moment in any of his films that made
me remember what it was that made me love the films of the genre being tweaked.
There’s little that’s scary or mysterious about The Sixth Sense,
little that’s thrilling or heroic in Unbreakable, and little that’s
otherworldly or frightening about Signs, his latest film. I suppose the
director has improved here a little over his last effort since his direction
here is a bit quicker and looser and there are some moments of levity thrown in
(usually at the expense of suspense), but that’s not really saying much.
Shyamalan is still a strict formalist and his mannered direction has many more
cobwebs to shake out before he can approach the transcendent glee that a
competent genre deconstructor like De Palma often does.
I’m sure Signs, which shows a microcosmic look at
a macrocosmic alien invasion, will have its admirers since its methodic nature
suggests there’s something profound going on beneath the surface. There really isn’t
though. Instead of pondering, we get ponderousness. This time at bat, the movie
is supposed to be a meditation on lapsed faith, but there’s nothing here that
wasn’t better conveyed by Harvey Keitel’s former minister in From Dusk
Till Dawn, where it was relegated to a compelling subplot instead of the
movie’s excuse for a reason for being. Like Unbreakable and The
Sixth Sense, Signs takes place in Pennsylvania (my home state,
incidentally), and in what seems to be the film’s most explicit homage to
someone besides Hitchcock, the movie adopts, in its second half, the setup of
George Romero’s classic horror film Night of the Living Dead, which was
set outside Pittsburgh. It pales miserably in comparison though, both in the
amount of empathy that you feel toward its characters - who start out as likable
sorts, but then are so obviously held up as likable sorts that you begin
resenting them - and the amount of fear that builds, so you have to wonder why
the director would embarrass himself with the association (one must assume
it’s pomposity). Ultimately, Signs, like Shyamalan’s last two
efforts, disappoints most because it fails to be a genre film first and
foremost. Hopefully, next time the director decides to dabble in a filmic niche,
he’ll stop to think first about what it is that makes that niche endure.