M Night Shyamalan

M Night¹ Shyamalan is a filmmaker who fascinates and frustrates in equal measure. His creative career has been defined by astonishing successes – the popularity of his early films prompting comparisons to Steven Spielberg and Alfred Hitchcock² – and devastating failures, with mid-career releases attracting relentless critical scorn. Rather than being relegated to a cautionary footnote, however, Shyamalan proved with the release of 2016’s Split – and its staggering box-office takings – that he’s one of the rare filmmakers of his generation able to bridge the gap between the idiosyncratic individualism associated with arthouse auteurism and the sweeping genre trappings of the commercial sphere.

There are few currently working directors who encapsulate the challenges and contradictions of contemporary filmmaking than Shyamalan. Over the past couple of decades, up-and-coming auteurs have tended to be shunted into one of two lanes: low-budget films geared for film festivals and/or limited theatrical release, or big-budget franchise films that might grant them the flexibility and name recognition to release their own original films. In that first group, you have the likes of Joe Swanberg and Lynne Ramsay; in the other, directors like Taika Waititi and Patty Jenkins, who’ve catapulted their distinctive viewpoints to wider audiences thanks to superhero films. Even Christopher Nolan, arguably this generation’s most recognisable auteur, established himself commercially with a trio of Batman movies.

Shyamalan has his own superhero trilogy, of course: the so-called ‘Eastrail 177’ trilogy,³ formed of Unbreakable (2000), Split and Glass (2019). Comparing these films and Nolan’s ‘Dark Knight’ triptych reveals Shyamalan’s preoccupations: the latter’s films are chilly works, more interested in questions of character and belief than in expensive action scenes. This is not to disparage Nolan’s films, which are often impelled by rich characterisation and moral questions. But if the ‘Dark Knight’ trilogy ‘elevates’ superhero filmmaking, the Eastrail 177 films deconstruct the genre entirely – with mixed results.

Almost all of Shyamalan’s works could be described as ‘genre films’, but few slot naturally alongside their apparent neighbours. Apart from his brief dalliances with journeyman film-making (2010’s The Last Airbender and 2013’s After Earth), the director’s features have consistently manifested his obsessions. These obsessions include – but aren’t limited to – deterministic narratives that obfuscate and conceal twists, a deep-seated examination of faith in all its forms, and the fragility of the stories we tell ourselves.

At his best, Shyamalan combines these predilections with a knack for engaging storytelling that captivates a broad spectrum of audiences; at his worst, he slides into navel-gazing pap. The gaping gulfs in quality found across his filmography may make him a frustrating filmmaker to follow, but they’re part and parcel of a creative approach driven by a distinct vision – however inconsistent the execution of that vision might be.

KEY FILMS

The Sixth Sense

The Sixth Sense (1999) wasn’t Shyamalan’s first film. It was preceded by two releases: the micro-budget, unreleased Praying with Anger (1992) and the largely forgotten Rosie O’Donnell comedy Wide Awake (1998). Yet, without a doubt, The Sixth Sense is the film that defines the director and his subsequent career. His first films might inform an understanding of his oeuvre – particularly in their explorations and representations of faith – but The Sixth Sense is where Shyamalan’s Hollywood story truly begins.

[The Sixth Sense’s] captivating premise and audacious ending left an indelible cultural mark that lingers today. In particular, it’s hard to imagine a teenager watching the film nowadays without prior knowledge of its twist.

Where waited three years from its production to its low-key release, was an instant phenomenon. Picking up six Academy Award nominations (including a Best Director nod), was the(George Lucas). The film’s captivating premise and audacious ending left an indelible cultural mark that lingers today. In particular, it’s hard to imagine a teenager watching the film nowadays without prior knowledge of its twist, which has since become go-to example for spoiler discussions; it’s nigh impossible to read an article debating the significance (or lack thereof) of spoilers without mentioning the revelation that ‘Bruce Willis was dead all along’, an ending voted the best twist of all time in 2010.