Quite possibly the dumbest, most self-satisfied film ever made. Don’t believe me? Let me just recount the plot for you: The superintendent of a Philadelphia area apartment building (Cleveland Heep, played by Paul Giammati), who is hiding a deep dark secret (this is Shyamalan remember), finds a water nymph in the complex’s pool. This nymph, called a narf for some reason, is meant to find a person (called the vessel) who, upon seeing her, will be inspired to do something great. That done, the narf can then mount a giant eagle (called the Great Eaglon) and return to her home, the Blue World. Trying to prevent her return is a wolf-like monster with grass for fur called a scrunt. There are certain nights during which the scrunt cannot attack the narf because the super evil tartutic (three monkey-like creatures made of wood who all share the one name of tartutic) will punish them. But, since this particular narf is the madame narf (an important narf who’s return to the Blue World will herald great change), the scrunt is willing to risk the wrath of the tartutic to attack the narf as she awaits the Great Eaglon. Thus the narf must enlist the help of certain humans who have been blessed with certain abilities and have felt compelled to reside in a place near the narf, in this case, in the apartment complex. Of course, the people don’t know they have these gifts so Cleveland must seek them all out. And there are a lot. There’s the “symbolist” (any similarity to Robert Langdon’s fictional occupation is purely coincidental I’m sure), the healer, the interpreter, the guardian and a group of people called the guild. Finally, with these ten or so people surrounding her, the narf has her rendezvous with the big eagle.
Seriously, that is the simplest and quickest summary of the plot of this film possible. It’s so convoluted and ridiculous that almost all of the film is spent conveying the plot. Two thirds of the dialogue is simply exposition. And the characters responsible for this exposition are two horribly stereotypical Korean women who once heard this tale as a fable back in Korea (never mind that the names “scrunt”, “ narf”, and “tartutic” sound not the least bit Korean).
Watching the film and hearing the slowly unraveling complications of the narf’s return to the Blue World, you get the distinct impression that Shyamalan is making this up as he goes. Each new development or obstacle is more unlikely and nonsensical than the last. And, perhaps most damningly, not one person in the entire film behaves like a real human being.
For example, upon finding this naked girl in the pool and hearing her tale, Cleveland doesn’t for even a moment think she’s a nut with serious mental issues. And when he begins to tell more and more of the residents of the apartment complex about her, none of these people think the whole thing’s just some crazy yarn and call the men in white coats. I guess it makes sense that the people who are unknowingly gifted (the healer, the guardian, the guild, etc.) might believe the story but plenty of non-magical people hear it too and not one person is an unbeliever. Further, the plan these people concoct to get the narf to safety is just about the most convoluted and silly strategy possible (it involves a big party and a band). It is said early on in the film that the scrunt cannot attack the narf when she is in the water. The pool is like fifty feet from the building. Why not just toss her in the pool and wait for the stupid eagle?
Okay, so the plot is ridiculously stupid and the mythology of this Blue World is inane to the point of being insulting but that is not what makes this film so smug and self-satisfied. No, that comes when you see what character Shyamalan has chosen to play and which character he has chosen to punish with the film’s lone act of violence. Remember that one person whom the narf was to influence? That’s the role Shyamalan’s chosen for himself. And the narf’s influence compels him to write a book that will not only change the world, it also causes him to be murdered, martyred for his art. As for the character that is on the receiving end of the film’s only violence, that character’s a film critic (named, for some reason, after Manny Farber, a champion of B movies and unknown auteurs).
These two taken together clearly indicate the absurd depths of Shyamalan’s messiah complex. He sees himself as the lone voice of truth and beauty in the world, his constant critical drubbing a sort of near-religious persecution. He is perhaps the only artist capable of bringing light and beauty into the world and as such must constantly fight against those (critics) who attempt to shroud that light and silence his voice. Therefore, in his mind, attacking his films becomes an attack on beauty and truth not a simple discussion of the relative merits of his films. And thus, as each successive film becomes more and more ridiculous with less and less people willing and able to defend it, Shyamalan increasingly sees himself as more and more the true artist. Eventually he’ll be making films for an audience of one and still firmly believing that he’s going to change the world. You simply cannot get more smug and self-satisfied than that.
I think I go to Shyamalan’s films to pick them apart, to dissect them and poke holes in the nonsensical plot machinations and lack of any believable reality. But, if I were to be totally honest, I also go to Shyamalan’s films because, despite the increasing amount of ludicrousness, there’s always a moment or two in which Shyamalan’s wonderful way with images wins out and the film becomes, for just a moment, everything its creator thinks it is. These moments of pure cinema magic (the baby monitor sequence in Signs or the conversation on the train in Unbreakable or the murder in The Village) are worth the two hours of nonsense that surrounds them if only because they allow the viewer to hold out hope that one day Shyamalan will make a whole film that fulfills the promise of these few scenes. Unfortunately The Lady in the Water is not that film. And worse, there are no such magical moments in it at all. I don’t know what this bodes for Shyamalan’s future but if his visual skills are going the way of his writing skills (i.e. straight up his ass) there will very soon cease to be any reason to see or talk about Shyamalan’s films. And maybe that’ll be a relief. Shyamalan can see himself as becoming completely like Christ (persecuted to the point of (career) death) and we, the movie-going public, will be spared his nonsensical self-aggrandizing mythology. I, for one, am starting to think I won’t miss him. And judging by the lackluster box office returns, it looks like I might not be the only one.
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