After wondering if M. Night Shyamalan is either very talented or very conceited, I have settled that he is, in fact, both.

The man obviously has talent, even though "Unbreakable" does drag his record (yes, yes, I know—excellent character study. But pacing, egads...I've seen narcoleptics move faster. Asleep.).

Pacing is one thing he got right in "Sixth Sense," and he does it again in "Signs"—drawing in the audience step by precisely laid-out step and giving our senses a frightening maul in the meantime.

The man loves Hitchcock. You can't watch this movie and not think Hitchcock (the fact Shyamalan writes, directs, produces and acts in this thing aside). The opening credits are reminiscent of the nostalgic black-and-white fright romps, a plain grey spotlight with credits speared onto the screen, timed to a wonderful orchestration. Violins haven’t been this creepy since "Psycho."

And the camera angles—Shyamalan loves to place inanimate objects in the immediate focus, making them fill the screen while the actors linger in the background.

Part of this film's genius is the director's realization his audience can imagine things twenty times worse than he can show us, and he proceeds to let our imaginations run wild with camera shots that have the action take place outside the frame, so we strain to hear what is happening to make up for what we can’t see, our little minds conjuring up images that have us cringing tensely in our seats.

And Shyamalan loves to catch us in those moments with sound. Many of this film's biggest scares come from the sudden bang of sound in the silence—but it's done so well, the gimmick doesn't get tired. It still gets us every armchair-clawing time.

This film digs deeper at the question "Are we alone?" At its heart it isn't a film presenting the finer points of alien invasion vs. interstellar outreach program. It goes beyond scientific debate and digs at belief—revealing a fault of human nature in our willingness to believe more in something we can never see (like oxygen, quarks and God) than in things we can.

Faith is what is truly questioned in this movie, and Mel Gibson (a nice trade from Shyamalan's favorite Bruce Willis), upon further thought, is convincing.
Gibson plays a father of two and a Father who has quit the church, his belief in God defunct. Throughout this film I did not believe Gibson could ever be a Father—and then realized that was the point. Here was a man so bitter about what had been handed him, he had lost all faith. He didn't believe. He hated. And his brother (Joaquin Phoenix) and children (Rory Culkin, Abigail Breslin) suffer for it.

Bo (Breslin) seems to be the most affected—her matter-of-fact reasoning so childish it seems adult and her finicky nature with glasses of water seemingly a psychological side-effect. And Breslin is a find. As Shyamalan launched Haley Joel Osment, I have no doubt the same will be done with Breslin.

Shyamalan proves he has as much skill in spotting talent as he does in yanking at our emotions. Among the fright and terror are perfectly timed comedic moments, allowing us that breath of relaxation before our minds are gripped again with fear.

But Shyamalan fails when it comes to denouement: this film ended before it ended. He did the same thing in "Sixth Sense" and "Unbreakable"—he gives you all the pieces, all the lose ends (so many loose ends) and proceeds to tie them up neatly in the last five minutes of the film, then goes on to make the firmly knotted conclusion into a decorative little bow of obviousness.

The closing shot of Mel Gibson with his priestly collar donned only succeeded in drawing out the film another ten minutes. In the last gripping moments of this film, we know Gibson has gone through a hellish journey and come out the other side—not smelling like roses, but with his belief restored.

The audience gets this. We don't need it shoved down our throats with fancy camera work and fades. Shyamalan’s already played out the story so expertly, we are right there with him and know where he’s going. Treating us like idiots won't win him any new fans, but will make him more likely for discussion among critics.

The only other downfall? With so much reliant on our own imaginations, I'm utterly disappointed when Shyamalan gives in and shows us one of the invaders. Fuzzy, distorted close-up shot aside, having a sudden reality thrust upon you when you've been busy conjuring up your own personal demon for the past 90 minutes cheapens the exhilarating fear that made you want to curl into a little ball on your movie theatre seat.

Ah, well.

Shyamalan shows so much promise, I won't fault him too much for these little errors. I'll just hope he learns from them.

Quickly.

Originally published by the Tyler Morning Telegraph.