On M. Night Shyamalan and the Breaking of Windows
“…For doubt is the hammer that breaks the windows clouded with human fancies, and lets in the pure light.”
“Signs” 2002
Years ago, when I first saw M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs, a film where a small family in the wake of a tragedy is forced to reckon with an impending alien invasion, the viewing mainly served to rack my nerves regarding sleeping outside in my grandparent’s RV. It wasn’t until high school when, in a film studies class consisting of only me and one other friend, I began to truly awaken to the anomalous nature of Shyamalan’s stories. Our teacher had us study the cinematography of his slow-burning hero myth Unbreakable; particularly the use of color as a storytelling technique. I doubt I expressed adequate gratitude to our teacher for continuing to teach the class despite such a small turnout. At the time I didn’t know that such a study would cement Unbreakable as one of my favorite films and consequently influence my own brand of storytelling for the better. So, thank you.
At first glance, 2002’s Unbreakable may seem like a deconstruction of the superhero genre. Really it is more a deconstruction of deconstructionism, and has developed a large cult following despite an initially lukewarm reception. Shyamalan was most widely lauded for one of his first feature films in 2000, The Sixth Sense, a drama disguised as a thriller disguised as a horror. His acclaim began to steadily (see: rapidly) decline after the release of The Village in 2004, the first time his nebulous approach to genre (see: marketing) really seemed to agitate critics, despite the film’s unspeakable, albeit imperfect beauty. In 2006, Lady in the Water confused audiences. In 2008, people really began to wonder what was Happening. Known for his twist endings, I hoped that his biggest yet would be a startling revelation with 2019’s Glass that he’d been faking for the past 12 years and could still direct a masterpiece.
“Hope is a dangerous thing.” - Red, The Shawshank Redemption
But I digress. Wherever Shyamalan is in the 3-act structure of his career in cinema, one thing remains certain. Within the span of 6 years, he has written, produced, and directed four of the most beautifully crafted films of all time. In his simple, character-focused thrillers based in or around Philadelphia, Night succeeds not in tearing down myths to make them commonplace, but in gently removing the wool over the eyes of his audience in order to uplift the commonplace into the mythic.
Each of his early films is deserving of its own analysis but for my purposes here, I will focus on Signs and a particular theme therein that threads through the rest of them as well.
After a title sequence accompanied by James Newton Howard’s terrifying score, the film opens on an idyllic frame. The morning sunlight washes over a large backyard next to a cornfield, quickly introducing the rural, isolated setting of the story. A play-set, a picnic table, and an old fashioned stone grill evoke something of the American Dream. After a few moments of utter stillness, the painterly image begins eerily rippling. The frame around a slightly warped window is revealed as we are pulled backwards into a dark room. This simple move of the camera evokes two things. One: Our view of the backyard was always skewed but it took movement to notice it. Two: The frame of the window within the frame of the camera subtly identifies the perspective of the viewer with the perspective of the protagonist, Graham Hess (Mel Gibson), who is about to get out of bed and discover that a large, foreign symbol has been cut into his corn field. It took me years of repeat viewings to notice the significance of this opening shot in relation to the rest of the film. Graham is reeling internally from the loss of his wife six months prior to the events of the film. Watch the clip below to get a sense of what window he sees the world through.
Based on the opening shot, and Graham’s monologue in the scene above, Shyamalan is telling us that the facts are evident to everyone. We all see the play-set, the picnic table, the crop-circles, the fourteen lights hovering in the sky. The question is what lens we see them through. I’ve found it interesting to try categorizing people by their lenses as opposed to the dogmas they verbally express; for two people can agree on a fact of life while viewing it from utterly different angles or through radically opposing lenses. A storm is brewing and the commuter curses while the farmer smiles. Though, with that example it could be argued that both men are looking through their respective but similar economical bifocals. Perhaps a better example would be two nature lovers: one who sees the storm as a reason to stay in and the other who sees it as a reason to go out. Consider the woman who believes dusk is imminent only to remove her sunglasses and squint in the afternoon sun; Or the man wearing infrared goggles who, for a time, judges the world by heat alone. On a more philosophical note, take the determinist who believes every single detail contained in the vastness of the universe has been set in stone from the beginning of time… yet insists that men should make penance for their sins as if they had a say in their conduct. Here the lens supersedes the dogma.
Graham’s window may seem at first to be colored by a disbelief in the existence of God. As the film progresses and an alien invasion moves from mere possibility into chilling inevitability, we realize he still believes, but disdains. During an emotional sequence that begins in fear and ends in hope (a microcosm of Night’s storytelling template), Graham cradles his son Morgan who writhes through an asthma attack without his medicine. In an interval between comforting words to his son, Graham’s eyes flit up as if to meet with someone in the dark corner of the basement. “Don’t do this to me again. Not again. I hate you. I hate you.” Shyamalan, in the behind the scenes documentary for the movie says of the scene, “Its the first time he actually acknowledges that there’s something up there, and the way he acknowledges it is through hate.”
As we move through the plot, the contours of the window become evident. It isn’t God’s existence, but His goodness in the balance. Could the God that Graham had served faithfully be an accomplice to such chaotic storms of disaster and yet maintain His benevolence?
I would be remiss to neglect mentioning Graham’s brother, Merrill, who stepped in to help take care of the the two young children after his wife’s passing. Once a minor-league baseball star, his career never took off due to his proclivity for striking out. “Felt wrong not to swing,” he tells an army recruiting agent who recognizes him. Now working at a gas station, the fire inside him that pulsed through his bat and resulted in five minor league records seems to have sabotaged him in the end. He never really wanted to play baseball. He just wanted to swing at something with all his might.
His is more of a mirror than a window. This is a faint echo of another of Night’s character’s, David Dunn of Unbreakable.
As the film comes to its enrapturing climax, all the disparate tributaries of the individual characters’ struggles are shown to come from the same river of meaning.
If you haven’t seen this movie, go and watch it before continuing.
The alien invasion is over and the family is descending back into normalcy after Merrill does a sweep of the house. Graham pulls the television into the living room so that his weakened son can watch the news of liberation from the sofa. In another brilliant frame that identifies the viewer’s perception with that of the protagonist, Graham pulls the television to a halt and reflected in the dark screen, very much like the one the audience is watching, a lone intruder stands in the living room. Graham slowly turns around to see that in the alien’s arms is his unconscious son. The wheels in Graham’s mind begin spinning. And his eyes are opened. In a powerful example of cinematic flashback, the last words of his wife take on a new meaning.
The curses upon the family become their salvation. Morgan’s asthma keeps the alien’s poison from getting into his lungs, Merrill’s warrior spirit is now given a target, and the death of Graham’s wife has shouted at him what he needed to survive, not only in body, but in spirit as well.
“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.”
Merrill defeats the rogue intruder with his retired baseball bat and the many glasses of water strewn around the living room because of little Bo’s OCD-like tendency to only drink water until she finds a contaminant within. It is revealed that water eats away at the alien’s skin like acid. Some viewers hate this fact and it ruins the movie for them because they can’t stomach the idea that water-averse aliens would invade Earth, a planet consisting of mostly water. I’m not even sure a response to this is necessary as it neglects the story in favor of digging for minor plot holes. But why would an alien race that needed (or even strongly desired) to invade another planet that is home to life, refuse to do so because it would be dangerous for them? In the scope of the universe, it seems the invaders would be short on options. The plot hole doesn’t hold water. The film does. And as the alien breathes it’s last, we see it reflected in the broken television.
The final shot of Signs starts exactly as the first. Only now, the family of four are together in the backyard, the father cradling his son who has just been delivered from the arms of a powerful foe. As we pull back into the room once more, the world does not warp through a flawed pane of glass. The broken edges of it line the now open window-frame.
The inner workings of the universe may still be a mystery to Graham, and to the viewer as well. But a window has been broken and we can see clearly that which we do not understand; that there is a sovereign power at work even in our greatest sufferings.
I fear my writing has not done this film justice. A theological treatise could be written simply based on the aforementioned asthma attack scene. All I can hope for is that my thoughts will direct a reader to a film that will direct a viewer to the truth.
Read these words uttered by Graham as he holds his gasping son.
“The fear is feeding it... Believe its going to pass. Believe it. ...The air is coming...Don’t be afraid. Here comes the air... Feel my chest. Breathe with me. Together. The air is going in our lungs. Together. We’re the same. We’re the same.”
Read them again as God speaking to Graham.