The Sixth Sense (1999, M. Night Shyamalan)

Setting aside the twists and reveals, The Sixth Sense is about three character relationships. There’s child psychologist Bruce Willis and troubled youth Haley Joel Osment, there’s Osment and mom Toni Collette, there’s Willis and wife Olivia Williams. The film opens with Willis and Williams celebrating him receiving an award for his work, which she thinks is more important than him, as he’s been neglecting her to do that work. They get past the unpleasantness to some awards night amorousness, only for a home invasion to interrupt them.

One of Willis’s former patients, now grown up, has broken in to let the award-winner know he doesn’t help all the kids and shoots Willis for his trouble. Donnie Wahlberg plays the intruder; it’s basically a cameo but very effective.

Fast forward a few months, and Willis is still recovering from the assault. He can’t keep track of time anymore, including his first appointment with Osment. Osment has a similar case file to Wahlberg, and Willis sees helping Osment as a chance to redeem himself. Except Osment’s not willing to trust Willis with his secrets, including explaining his strange behavior at home and school to Willis. Instead, Osment just scares Collette, who’s overwhelmed and trying to stay afloat since her husband walked out on them.

Meanwhile, Willis’s emphasis on his work has led to further distance from Williams, who ignores his tepid attempts at apologies and explanations.

Obviously, the film’s twists factor in, but not in how the characters experience the events or how the actors essay their roles. There are four layers of Sixth Sense: Willis’s experience, Osment’s experience, Williams and Collette’s experience (they’re just girls, after all), and then writer and director Shyamalan’s actuality. What’s impressive about the film isn’t how everything comes together in the third act—the third act is a series of stumbles, in fact—but how well Shyamalan paces Osment and Willis’s relationship. It takes time for Willis to earn Osment’s trust, for Willis to separate Osment from his professional expectations from Osment; once Osment trusts Willis enough to tell him the truth about what’s going on, the film’s well into the second act. Everything in the film changes at that point, with Shyamalan now showing Osment’s experiences instead of showing everyone else observing Osment’s experiences.

It’s good enough to make up for multiple fizzles of the third act, where Shyamalan whiffs on resolving every single one of the character relationship resolves. The one for Willis and Osment is the best and only stumbles because Willis’s getting relationship advice from a little kid, and it’s not great relationship advice. It works rather conveniently within the boundaries of the film’s twists, but it’s far from a eureka moment. Then Osment and Collette’s resolution is too little, too late, too contrived. In particular, it’s too bad for Collette, who the film wrests through emotions without reward.

The resolve for Williams and Willis is the big one and… Unfortunately, Shyamalan overestimates the chemistry between the actors. Especially since they only have the one big scene together at the beginning, then everything else is detached. Given all Shyamalan’s constraints, it’s reasonably effective but not good.

Osment’s the film’s obvious standout. Until his trite resolution—which Shyamalan drops in like an afterthought—everything Osment does is phenomenal, whether he’s dealing with the usual—school bullies, sad mom—or the abnormal, like crusading therapist Willis, not to mention once the supernatural comes into play. Thanks to the film’s structure, Osment’s the only actor who’s got to maintain a performance through big reveals, and he ably does so. Without Osment, there’s no movie.

Willis is fine. Shyamalan over-directs Willis’s pensive reflection scenes, which works out thanks to Tak Fujimoto’s gorgeous, muted but lush photography, and James Newton Howard’s score. Willis rarely gets to do his charm offensives (Osment shuts them down), and, given the twists and turns, it’s not much of a role in the end.

Similarly, Collette’s got snippets of great scenes, but since she’s usually only seen from Osment’s perspective, there are some hard limits on her part.

Williams is even more limited. She’s not bad, especially since Shyamalan writes her as selfish. There’s also her unaddressed age difference with Willis, which has a lot of connotations thanks to how Shyamalan fills in their backstory with flashback devices; those connotations then inform her behavior in the present action, at the beginning of the film, and not complimentarily.

The film’s got some rocky stretches and some silly stretches—not to mention Shyamalan writes Willis as incapable of handling kids with real problems (it’s like a PG-13 story set in a PG world)—but the core relationship between troubled kid Osment and caring doctor Willis gets it through. That third act’s a mess, though.

Wayward Pines (2015) s01e01 – Where Paradise Is Home

My favorite part of this episode is when M. Night Shyamalan’s name comes up for the director credit because there have already been so many terrible shots, it seemed like it had to be a named terrible. Shyamalan’s direction throughout the episode will be godawful, both with his composition and the direction of the actors. For instance, if I never see Shannyn Sossamon in anything again, I’ll be fine, and it’s entirely Shyamalan’s infinitely lousy direction of her performance.

He even manages to get a lousy performance from Melissa Leo, which I didn’t think was possible. At least, not this wretched a performance.

Shyamalan’s also one of the show’s executive producers, with Chad Hodge getting the creating credit. The show’s based on novels by Blake Crouch, which I haven’t and would need to be paid to read at this point, so it’s unclear who wrote all the terrible dialogue. I’m assuming Hodge. Though maybe Shyamalan gave the stars license.

Speaking of stars, “Wayward Pines” has a motley crew of “used to be movie stars” traipsing across the screen, starting with Matt Dillon. He’s a Secret Service agent on a secret mission somewhere in the Pacific Northwest who wakes up injured and stumbles into Wayward Pines, Idaho. Outside the one Black guy—Terrence Howard as the sheriff—the show’s strictly as white and exclusionary as you’d expect from real Idaho.

Except Dillon soon discovers Wayward Pines is no regular town. For one thing, there are no crickets, rather noise boxes making cricket sounds.

He’s trying to get in touch with Sossamon, his somewhat estranged wife (Dillon stepped out on her with partner Carla Gugino, who he’s now on assignment looking for), but she never seems to get any of his messages. He doesn’t call her cell phone because he’s a shitty husband and doesn’t know the number. All of his personal possessions are missing, so it’s a little weird when everyone just takes it at face value he’s not lying about his identity.

Though we find out this episode while things aren’t what they seem, some things—people being out to get Dillon—are actually happening.

The only friend Dillon makes in town is bartender Juliette Lewis, who fronts him a cheeseburger and the address to a mysterious house where he makes a horrifying discovery. Sort of. If Shyamalan could direct, if Hodge could write, if Dillon could run the show.

Dillon’s a bad lead. I’m not sure how much of it’s Shyamalan or the writing, but he’s a charm black hole. He’s not as bad as the forced quirky going on around him, like Leo, but he’s not good. He’s a little better than Lewis, but Lewis’s performance feels like someone’s constantly distracting her from doing her job like Shyamalan was yelping every time she had a delivery and throwing her off.

Maybe he was chirping like a cricket.

Howard’s better than anyone else. He seems to know it’s bad.

Reed Diamond comes in towards the end and does fine. He’s apparently impervious or just knows how to work on bad TV.

The worst part of the episode might come at the very end, when the show gives away the mystery, promising the rest of the show will just be watching a bunch of unlikeable characters poorly acted.

Signs (2002, M. Night Shyamalan)

It’s impossible to overstate what a profoundly, risibly bad movie Shyamalan has made with Signs. As the end credits started rolling, after the most disappointing “epilogue” Shyamalan could’ve come up with—it’s not just disappointing, it’s also pointless (pointless is the probably the best adjective to describe scenes in Signs)—my wife joked the movie took two weeks to film. To which I responded, “Thirteen and a half days longer than it took to write.” Because even with all the bad in Signs—and there’s so much bad—the writing is the worst.

And Shyamalan does this non-committal “camera as POV” thing—cinematographer Tak Fujimoto should be ashamed of himself for enabling Shyamalan to do it and embarrassed with how poorly he shoots the thing; Signs looks terrible–so, in other words, there’s a lot of competition for what’s worst in Signs. Shyamalan’s direction of the talking heads scenes—and there so many talking heads scenes because Shyamalan, who’s ego is literally oozing from every grain of film–involves characters almost looking directly into the camera but then just a little diagonally. Shyamalan is going for something with Signs, with his very intentional direction, his very intentional casting of himself as the guy who kills star Mel Gibson’s wife in a traffic accident (Shyamalan was asleep at the wheel) and vehicular manslaughter isn’t a thing and it just turns reverend Gibson into an atheist (but they never say the a-word because while Signs is definitely a millimeter thinly veiled Christian movie, there’s still the veil and it’s never going to get confrontational about it). Also… Shyamalan wrote the movie, so he did kill the wife.

Symbolism. Pass it on. Like the dog tchotchkes at the end to remind the viewer there are dogs, even if everyone forgot about them because they don’t matter because Signs is insipid.

Signs is full of symbolism but not really full because there’s not much because Shyamalan gets frequently bored with things like mise en scène because there’s better things to do like write the awful scenes between Gibson and his family. I went into Signs at least thinking Gibson would get through it unscathed (performance-wise). No. No. Not at all. It’s a godawful performance. He is incapable of pretending to be a former reverend, a widow, a husband, a father, a brother, and a farmer. The scenes with Gibson and kids Rory Culkin (who’s kind of terrible; it’s not his fault, Shyamalan seems to be having him do a Macaulay impression circa Uncle Buck but he’s still bad) and Abigail Breslin, who gets terrible material and terrible direction, but is still phenomenal. Shyamalan can’t figure out how to direct her because she’s not terrible like the rest of his cast.

Though, not Joaquin Phoenix. He’s leagues better than Gibson, though it helps Phoenix’s character is a dope. Gibson’s ostensibly functional enough to get to this point in his life—whereas Phoenix apparently always had Gibson to lean on—yet Gibson is real dumb. Real dumb.

Other bad things about Signs? Cherry Jones. She’s awful. Ted Sutton is so bad SAG should’ve shut the production down. Bad editing from Barbara Tulliver; Tulliver’s editing, cut for cut, is probably even worse than Fujimoto’s photography. Tulliver—presumably unintentionally—screws up all of Shyamalan’s jump scares. Larry Fulton’s production design is bad.

James Newton Howard’s score, while inexplicably a complete Bernard Herrmann Hitchcock rip-off (oh, wait, was Signs in the middle of Shyamalan being the new Hitchcock era), and poorly utilized, isn’t poorly composed. It’s competent, just misapplied. Everything else is incompetent and misapplied.

I was looking through Rodale for a good, fresh adjective to describe Signs but I think vapid does the job best. It’s worse than I expected it to be, which is saying a lot, but it also surprised me. I had no idea Gibson would so spectacularly fail or Phoenix would be—with a lot of conditions—so much better. And I guess Shyamalan managed to be inventively terrible, it’s just he’s a pointless kind of inventively terrible.

Oh, you know what… there’s the word.

Puerile.

Signs is puerile.

Unbreakable (2000, M. Night Shyamalan)

If Unbreakable wasn’t a one hour and forty-six minute self-aggrandizement from wannabe mainstream-auteur (notice, not mainstream auteur) Shyamalan, it’d somehow be even worse. Because at least if Shyamalan is intentionally doing all these things, making all these choices, it’s a cohesive flop. If he’s not, if the mishmash elements are actually mishmash (like, you know, third-billed Robin Wright’s existence), if he really doesn’t think the sixth grade meets screenwriting manuals script is amazing, if there’s not a point to all those crane shots–usually shattering ceilings–then Unbreakable is even worse. And you don’t want it to be even worse because you gave it those 106 minutes, when you should’ve stopped at the opening text giving statistics on the comic book hobby and industry in the year 2000.

Or at least when the next scene of the movie is about a baby being born in a department store in 1961. The newborn has broken arms and legs. There’s almost the plot possibility the all-white store staff did something to the black mom (Charlayne Woodard) and baby. Attending physician Eamonn Walker certainly thinks something happened.

But then the action jumps ahead to the present, with Bruce Willis sitting on a train. He’s a quiet enough guy–totally bald–wearing a suit, but he does then proceed to take-off his wedding ring to flirt with the hottie who sits down next to him. Charmlessly flirt. In an exaggerated sad, creepy way so you know he’s harmless. And it’s not like he leaves the ring off after she bails.

Oh, before I forget. The greatest tragedy of the film is that time jump, because it’s the last time Walker’s in the movie and he gives the only decent performance. Wright’s performance isn’t her fault, but it’s still not good.

But instead you sat through the failed train pickup. Then things start getting exciting when Willis realizes the train’s going really, really fast. Then they stop getting exciting. And so ends the last building of dramatic tension in the film. And Shyamalan is going to make you suffer for sticking with it. No more rising tension. Ever. Not even when Shyamalan moves the camera around really fast to show you you’re supposed to be feeling the rising tension.

Instead it’s about one hour and forty minutes of humorless, joyless moping from everyone involved. I was going to say there’s nothing technically accomplished about the film–while Shyamalan’s hilariously pedestrian Panavision composition isn’t cinematographer Eduardo Serra’s fault, Serra had a duty to the human optical nerve not to do some of these things; similarly, editor Dylan Tichenor didn’t come up with the tone but he executed it. But production designer Larry Fulton does do a fine job creating, at least, Willis and Wright’s house, which is a miserable place you can’t imagine anyone ever said a kind word to one another much less had a holiday meal or birthday party. Wright doesn’t even get to exist in the house without Willis inviting her into the story.

Oh, right. Wright and Willis are breaking up because he’s too distant from her and son Spencer Treat Clark (who really ought to be the worst performance in the film but isn’t because Samuel L. Jackson; but in any fair universe, Clark would be the worst). Only we don’t find out why they’re breaking up for like an hour, until they’re getting back together.

Sorry, I’m forgetting. Willis’s train crashes and everyone dies except him and comic book art gallery dealer Samuel L. Jackson mysteriously contacts him with an unsigned note on his car. Has Willis ever been sick. He hasn’t ever been sick, something Willis finds really weird when he thinks about it so he goes to see Jackson. Jackson thinks Willis is a superhero. Only they never say superhero, they just say hero because Shyamalan is a serious important filmmaker and somehow saying superhero would make the whole thing silly.

Jackson is the baby from the first scene grown up. He has osteogenesis imperfecta; his bones are fragile. The kids who regularly assaulted him growing up called him “Mr. Glass.” He owns an art gallery with terrible drawings of superheroes. Not terrible like they’re fighting gross monsters, terrible like no one on the film had access to actual… drawings. Superhero or otherwise. It’s funny?

Anyway, Jackson tells Willis he’s a superhero because comic books are at least based somewhat in fact when describing superheroes. Jackson’s got this obnoxious history of comics monologue starting in Ancient Egypt, which is really, really, really dumb. Like silly dumb and inaccurate would make more sense if Shuster and Siegel created Superman after seeing a meteor fall. But there’s no Shuster or Siegel or the actual history of superhero comics because, well, Shyamlan’s script is really bad, but also because DC Comics had zero participation in the film. Despite Jackson’s favorite comics looking like DC Comics–what kid wouldn’t run to the corner in 1968 to get the latest Active Comics starring Slayer–in the logo designs, the comics themselves are exceptionally inept. Later on, in comic shops, Marvel Comics appear, which is funny since the final line in the movie is a freaking Superman reference.

Anyway.

Willis thinks Jackson is crazy but then Jackson stalks him at work and soon Willis is thinking maybe he is a superhero. He and estranged son Clark bond over his possible superpowers. It’s a little less affecting after Willis reveals he (Willis, the dad) blames his son for the estrangement, which isn’t really an estrangement so much as Willis is unhappy because he’s not out there being a superhero. Man needs his purpose.

Woman needs her purpose too and Wright’s purpose is to fall back in love with Willis. She fell out because… it’s never clear. The scenes would make more sense if Wright and Willis barely knew one another, not raised a tween together. Wright also has zero relationship with Clark, which is weird because Willis is supposed to be such a bad dad, but when Clark and Wright are in a scene together it’s like they haven’t even been introduced.

Shyamalan’s directorial badness isn’t just in the composition or pacing, whatever he told those actors to do during filming, they should have refused. Because it’s terrible.

No one’s worse than Jackson. Well, Clark, but on a technicality of sorts. Jackson’s got no character whatsoever. He exists for Willis. He’s intentionally unlikable (unless Shyamalan thinks the scene where Jackson hates kids makes him likable), every delivery is flat because he’s so serious, but then he occasionally makes good jokes. Charmlessly. Because no one’s allowed to have any charm in Unbreakable, which is fair. It’s a charm vacuum.

Willis’s performance is bad too. Though less funny because he has less to do than Jackson in a lot of ways, even though he’s the lead and finds out he might be Superman. Well, not Superman. He might be unbreakable and have some psychic powers. Or he just has impressions, which play out as flashback or flash forward scenes with crane shots, which aren’t impressions, but Shyamalan never gets into it too much because it’d be nerdy to define Willis’s power set. Unbreakable is serious stuff, after all.

And, hey, Willis does eventually get to do a hero arc. After ignoring a racist physical assault on a black woman and a white woman getting raped, he finds someone he does want to save. A white guy. Will Super Willis be able to take on the villain, who is stronger than Willis so hopefully Willis doesn’t have super strength, but whatever.

Lousy, lousy, lousy–and entirely inappropriate–epic-sized music from James Newton Howard.

Unbreakable is a dismal experience. But, hey, it’s not like there weren’t signs right away. And it just gets worse. And worse. And worse. And then it’s five minutes in and there are 101 more to go.