Signs

(2002, Dir.: M. Night Shyamalan)

I’m getting a little impatient waiting for Shyamalan to get over his kick of dressing up B-movies in A-movie clothing; this is the third go-round of the same movie in different trappings, and while Shyamalan has talent, he’s not doing himself any favors by not stretching himself. Mel Gibson has never looked more liked Bruce Willis, and the cute precocious kid (here kids) motif is wearing a bit thin.

This would actually be fine if Shyamalan really brought something new to the genres, other than a bigger budget. (Unbreakable was the most successful, probably because, at least at the time, superheroes had not been mined nearly to the extent that ghosts and aliens have.) In Signs, Shyamalan returns to the theme of redemption through tragedy. In the wake of his wife’s untimely death, Graham Hess (Gibson, flexing his martyr muscle) has retreated from his faith, surrendering his reverend’s collar, if not all of his righteousness. The sudden appearance of the infamous crop circles (signs from above) throws yet another curve: not only is God out of the picture, He’s been replaced by a potentially malevolent force of nature. The aliens, though, are rather incidental—we get the same “the aliens are here” bits you might see in Close Encounters or V or Independence Day; unfortunately, the exploration of Graham’s arc through the film is itself rather callow, so there’s not much left of interest except puzzling together this edition’s “twist.”