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Get this: Cleveland Heep (Paul Giamatti, Sideways), a Philadelphia apartment building superintendent, finds a young woman (Bryce Dallas Howard, The Village) in the pool whose objective is to meet with a certain tenant and then leave. Now, hold on. The girl, named Story of all things, is actually a narf, a madame narf, thank you very much, and she must find and literally stare at a writer in order to inspire him, for his work will result in his death, but eventually benefit the world, before departing when a giant eagle takes her away. Threatening her mission is a scrunt, a grass-covered wolf whose mere scratches are toxic, and don’t even get me started on the trio of branch-covered protectors referred to as the tartutic. Oh, and throw in several capitalized roles for the building’s residents – the Guild, the Healer, the Interpreter, the Protector, the Writer/Director – while we’re at it. (Pay attention; there will be a quiz.)

Had this same movie been made by anybody else, one would still be hard-pressed to ever elevate it past ‘tolerable’. The intentions may be valid, to recreate the simplistic sensibility of a bedtime story, but the story itself is weak. However, in the hands of Shyamalan, it is not just a pathetic tale, but one poorly told. His formerly remarkable direction in the face of silly stories is no longer apparent, with several mishandled shots testing one’s retinas instead of peaking their interest, while the work of superb cinematographer Christopher Doyle goes to waste, particularly spoiled by sporadically shoddy CGI work. The story itself is tonally askew, with the torturously prolonged exposition unlikely to engage adults, the screwy plot and gloomy mood too much for kids, and no genuine scares, suspense, or satisfaction for anyone at all. It doesn’t know what it wants to be, so the usage of the term “bedtime story” in various publicity capacities lands as more of a blanket term for a genre hodgepodge than a genuinely interesting movie.

To boot, as much as one may want to disregard his previous works when approaching his latest project (personally? Loved The Sixth Sense, liked Signs, firmly meh on Unbreakable and The Village), he never hesitates to smother the viewer with his flagrant ego and remind them that this is his movie, and don’t you forget it. Besides the downright possessive tone with which his films are marketed, his frequent cameos are now expanded into a full-fledged supporting role as – wait for it – the fated author whose words will one day save the world at the cost of his life. When he asks Story if someone is going to kill him because he writes this, it turns out to be a strikingly prophetic remark. It doesn’t help matters that M. Night so eagerly puts himself in the line of fire, and had he cast someone else in his place and taken his name off of the title, it all might go down just a tad easier. Then again, even sans hubris, audiences would still have to stomach a plot that even a short bus wouldn’t brake for.

Lady in the Water allegedly began as a bedtime story for Shyamalan’s spawn, and as if The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl in 3D didn’t demonstrate enough why not to make movies directly influenced by the filmmaker’s offspring, he somehow believed that this was worth expanding into a full-length feature. (Perhaps he just got tired of repeating himself to the kiddies.) It’s not just the story that he’s asking viewers to swallow; it’s how he’s shoving it down our throats that botches the tale’s relative potential. One is supposed to be willing to take it in, as Cleveland does at one point, like a simple child free to substitute imagination for skepticism, but the required suspension of disbelief feels constantly tested and undermined by the murky mythos that M. Night keeps elaborating upon. Ultimately, the point seems to be about faith, which he tackled a bit better in Signs, and more so about a community believing in a greater goal, albeit any goal besides this one can’t help but appear feasible. However, even gullibility has to obey a certain logic, which is glaringly absent in this case. Imagination is one thing, but originality and creativity don’t necessarily equal quality.

As part of this world, every character has a role in the grand scheme of things, and as such, they each have exactly one trait, one purpose, and one dimension. There must be something in the water, or maybe Cleveland simply forgot to fix a gas leak, because there isn’t an ounce of skepticism amongst the residents when he approaches them for their help. For a film moderately grounded in modern society (the only glimpse of the world beyond the apartments is footage from the conflict in Iraq on every TV, a harsh reality from which they’re possibly escaping), a little reluctance would go a long way. But no, they’re all more than willing to inquire Story in a shower while she only responds in earlobe tugs and the like, or be equally eager when looking for veiled messages on cereal boxes, and so on. Cleveland himself has a stutter that mercifully vanishes in the company of Story, can somehow hold his breath for an obscenely long period while exploring her humble home beneath the pool, and conceals a tragic history that would be prime fodder in any other Shyamalan work, but feels rather superfluous here. Worst of all tenants are a mother and daughter of Oriental heritage, from whom Cleveland gradually learns the legend and who are borderline stereotypical in their exaggerated depiction. Even Ms. Swan would likely be offended.

There is always a constant puzzlement concerning how Uwe Boll attracts the actors he does in the face of mind-numbing awfulness, and from the look of things, he may have given M. Night a few pointers. Giamatti tries and tries to make Cleveland a reluctant hero of sorts, but only succeeds in embarrassing himself on multiple occasions (the stutter doesn’t help matters), while the previously-promising Howard spends the majority of her screen time whispering in a curled position, whether it be on Cleveland’s couch or the ever-popular shower of another apartment. Also among the actors inexplicably stooping so low are Jeffrey Wright (Broken Flowers), Jared Harris (The Notorious Bettie Page), Freddy Rodriguez (“Six Feet Under”), Mary Beth Hurt, and of most distinctive note, Bob Balaban (Capote), who plays the arrogant film critic, the man who swiftly identifies each character’s correspondence to the story, only to be proven wrong.

See, Mr. Farber is the latest tenant of The Cove, the sole individual stubborn enough to dismiss the current dilemma in the face of his persistent knowledge and effortless perception, and sure enough, the only character to get their comeuppance. Shyamalan plays this card not just to attack his attackers, but to defend himself from the surely scathing reviews to follow this project. What he fails to understand is that my colleagues are some of the most self-deprecating people around, and if anyone can take a joke about their profession, it’s them. However, as with anyone, a joke actually has to be good to work, and as Farber finds himself face-to-face with a scrunt, he then describes aloud how the situation is supposed to play out, a scene that is yet another gratuitous indulgence of his ego that only distracts from the story (and makes the film that much longer). The most that can be said about the inclusion of Mr. Farber is that he makes most every real critic looks better by comparison.

Maybe, Story saw into the future and told M. Night to hit rock bottom now, so that his career has nowhere to go but up. 'Lady in the Water' works only as a fascinating folly depicting the deterioration of a once-impressive storyteller, and even that isn’t reason enough for anyone outside of the most curious film buffs to spend two hours and ten bucks trying to endure it. Perhaps, deep down, M. Night wishes for the bitter cynics, the Farbers of the world to try and make a difference instead of being destructive. We can all begin to better our lives, first by avoiding whichever auditorium or channel is playing this film. See something else. Do something else. Hell, stare at some cereal boxes for a while until something more interesting begins to appear. He has a point: feel free to embrace your imagination, and as such, feel free to ignore his. Well, another critic dislikes your movie, Mr. Shyamalan. I’ve played right into your hands. Oh, how clever you must be. Now THERE'S a twist.

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originally posted: 08/10/06 12:24:12
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