Lady in the Water

Thunder bellowed down from the heavens like a choir of enraged angels, causing me to jump out of my chair, and nearly graze the ceiling. A torrential downpour pounded the space above my head, suffocating me into the depths of a watery grave. As I landed back into my chair, a door to the right of me began to rattle violently. Was it merely an effect of the rain and wind it led to? Was it a bloodthirsty killer desperate to find a victim within the silent, dark confines of my room? Or was it a ghost, attempting to rattle away the misery of eternity for one last breath of life? These thoughts were not at all inspired by M. Night Shyamalan’s Lady in the Water, but the rather intense thunderstorm that occurred during my screening of it.

Thank god the storm happened, because it provided me with the only moment of terror (or engagement) I felt while watching this horrific failure. A description of the plot is irrelevant, since the majority of the movie consists of characters trying to explain it. The fantastical mythology, detailing mankind’s ignorance of wisdom-spewing ‘narfs’, was apparently inspired by a bedtime story that no doubt succeeded in putting Shyamalan’s kids to sleep. The plot is so convoluted and yet simplistic that the suffocating seriousness the film applies to it makes it all the more laughable. There are so many nonsensical characters and back-stories to explain that the film degenerates into long-winded exposition, which has all the charm and entertainment value of a kid breathlessly explaining to you the latest video game he’s become obsessed with.

The film would like you to think it’s about a water-dwelling narf (Bryce Dallas Howard) materializing in the swimming pool of an apartment complex, seeking a human who has the undiscovered potential to save the world…or something like that. But she must hurry before the grassy fanged scrunts do away with her, although she can be protected by tree-dwelling branch-people, who will allow her fly back home on the wings of the Great Eatlon, if only she can find three distinct humans and a group that can work with their hands and…give me a break! All this film is really about is the bruised, over-inflated ego of its writer/producer/director.

Shyamalan will never EVER top his masterpiece of suspenseful drama, The Sixth Sense, and yet he refuses to stop trying. While Unbreakable and Signs delighted in their unfolding of suspense, each of their “payoffs” were disappointing. Shyamalan entered decidedly new territory with The Village that, while failing miserably as a horror film, worked as slyly haunting social commentary. Yet The Village was panned by critics, and instead of acting like a mature confident artist and carrying on with his art, Shyamalan left his long-time Disney financers (who understandably objected to the Lady script), and made this angry mean-spirited whine-fest about the sacred importance of storytelling and the idiots who don’t understand it.

Any possible joy or entertainment value is sucked into an appallingly ponderous vacuum of smug self-gratification. Shyamalan (who has repeatedly admitted to being a stiff, stilted actor, and has resigned to giving himself Hitchcockian cameos in his films) casts himself as a writer whose work has the magical potential to save the world. His performance is predictably horrid, further marred by the fact that he simply seems to be pissed off. He meanwhile makes film critics his direct target for skewering, and in a film populated by soulless stereotypes, critic Mr. Farber (Bob Balaban) is the worst offender – a seething, antisocial glob of judgment who stupidly uses Hollywood formula as a road map to deal with life’s problems (a characteristic linked closer to dementia than arrogance).

Yes, there are some critics out there who do think their opinions are superior to those of others, which is not only absurd, but a reflection of who they are as human beings. As a film critic myself, I feel that my job is to start an educated discussion on the merit of a movie, and not to state the final word. Putting my passion for the cinematic art form into my analysis of it, I am delighted when a film surprises me with unexpected twists. I also enjoy looking for symbolism, while remaining fully aware that my interpretation may not be what the filmmaker had intended.

That said, some films simply work better than others – and if you don’t believe me, rent Citizen Kane and Plan 9 from Outer Space and see if you can spot differences. Mr. Farber says, “Originality is dead” in cinema, and it often seems that way, as Hollywood regurgitates worn-out formulas and remakes everything that once turned in a profit. Shyamalan certainly is among the few filmmakers in America who takes chances in his storytelling, and makes films that are apparently based on nothing other than what comes out of his head. Yet with Lady in the Water, his imagination has clearly drowned within his seemingly bottomless ego. Any scares to be had are merely caused by loud sudden blasts on the soundtrack (ohmigod…it’s the sprinkler system!).

The final result is an astonishing waste of talent, from the elegant cinematography by Christopher Doyle, to the terrific multicultural cast led by Paul Giamatti. Saddled with a violent stutter and painful vulnerability, Giamatti once again proves he’s one of the best actors now working, although his performance here is completely undermined by the plot’s blatant smugness and silly incomprehensibility. Howard is still a promising young actress, yet Shyamalan can’t seem to find anything else for her to do other than sport a consistently blank expression (which she also did in his Village). If she isn’t careful, she’ll find herself starring in his next horror epic, The Sixth Stare.

Some films are predictably bad. Others are so awesomely misguided that they could only be the work of a true artist, who’s once vibrant mind now harbors a black hole of insecurity and perhaps writer’s block. This is an absolute embarrassment.

Rating: * (out of *****)