It's hard being M. Night Shyamalan. Year after year, his works of uncompromised genius are poorly received by theatergoers and film critics alike. Even Disney didn't want to make his latest film, Lady in the Water, fearing that it was poorly written, featured too large a role for the writer/director, and contained an embarrassingly self-indulgent attack at his detractors, the crrritics. And as much as I hate to agree with Disney, they were absolutely right.
The story, as convoluted as you've come to expect from the man, is not the main problem here. Sure, it's chock-full of narfs, tarturic, and poorly drawn stereotypes, but the larger issue for me was the cringe-inducing self-indulgence that runs rampant throughout the film. For instance, Shyamalan plays the role of an author, misunderstood in his time, who will one day influence a boy destined to become the president of the United States. Self-fulfilling prophecies, anyone? His acting is embarrassing and unintentionally hilarious in turns, and his reactions to pivotal plot points had me longing for the brief, campy cameos of years past.
While I can understand M. Night's desire to respond to the unenlightened critics that failed to see the staggering brilliance of his previous works, one has to question the response itself. Shyamalan is multitasking here, attempting to transport his audience through the magical realism of his self-proclaimed "bedtime story" while simultaneously denouncing his critics for trashing the gospel of M. Night. In the end, we're left with a fairy tale too aware of itself to fully envelop us and a pseudo-manifesto too delusional and self-important to inspire us in any way. In the end, Shyamalan made a film that can really only be enjoyed by himself. It's just a shame that the likes of Paul Giamatti, Bob Balaban, and Freddy Rodriguez have to go down with the Good Ship Shyamalan.
The story, as convoluted as you've come to expect from the man, is not the main problem here. Sure, it's chock-full of narfs, tarturic, and poorly drawn stereotypes, but the larger issue for me was the cringe-inducing self-indulgence that runs rampant throughout the film. For instance, Shyamalan plays the role of an author, misunderstood in his time, who will one day influence a boy destined to become the president of the United States. Self-fulfilling prophecies, anyone? His acting is embarrassing and unintentionally hilarious in turns, and his reactions to pivotal plot points had me longing for the brief, campy cameos of years past.
While I can understand M. Night's desire to respond to the unenlightened critics that failed to see the staggering brilliance of his previous works, one has to question the response itself. Shyamalan is multitasking here, attempting to transport his audience through the magical realism of his self-proclaimed "bedtime story" while simultaneously denouncing his critics for trashing the gospel of M. Night. In the end, we're left with a fairy tale too aware of itself to fully envelop us and a pseudo-manifesto too delusional and self-important to inspire us in any way. In the end, Shyamalan made a film that can really only be enjoyed by himself. It's just a shame that the likes of Paul Giamatti, Bob Balaban, and Freddy Rodriguez have to go down with the Good Ship Shyamalan.