Crock Circles

Rating: Null/10 (5 August 2002)

They are from the farthest reaches of the cosmos. They are incalculably more advanced than we are. They have rocketed light years through space to eradicate our species and consume our planet's latent natural resources. They didn't bring WEAPONS. They didn't bring TOOLS. They have not yet figured out how to open pantry DOORS. If you enjoyed Signs, you probably don't find anything wrong with the above statement. You're fine with that. Sure-why can't a species without opposable thumbs build spaceships? Makes perfect sense. Allergic to water, the molecular compound that makes life possible? Absolutely. Relax man, it's just a movie.
Not according to the cover of Newsweek it aint. Got some news for M. Night, just in case he starts believing his own press. Sticking the camera close to your subject and hiring a good sound designer does NOT make you a "master of suspense". It doesn't make you "our greatest storyteller", "Hitchcock incarnate", or any other trite turn of phrase the Hollywood Hype-macht has farted out recently. Times is hard when this is the only filmmaking we have to get excited about.
Let me backpedal a bit, lest you think hating things is my hobby. The man has made two very good movies. In a row, no less. Not brilliant. Not genius. But good. You heard me-good. The Sixth Sense doesn't constitute high art, regardless of how much some people wish it did. But it was nicely executed. Got the job done. Didn't send me screaming for a refund. Neither did Unbreakable--a movie that had flow problems, but also held up under its own weight. Stayed true to itself, did it with style, and made you want to dig out the old comic books. You make two good movies in a row, and I'm guaranteed to buy a ticket to your next one. And I'm even going to approach it with a heart lacking the big sack of skepticism I normally sneak into the theater along with my Twizzlers. So believe me, I wasn't ready to hate Signs. I wanted this movie to be great just as much as everyone else.
People want to believe in Hollywood. They want to believe that we have an infallible dream factory on the west coast that warrants the vile amount of attention we give it. Our need to sanctify this excess is so palpable, that we'll call just about anything "great"-simply to help us like what we see in the mirror. The myth of our own creativity has become unwieldy, so much so that we'll fulfill it at any cost. Hollywood isn't dead! Look! We've got a genius right here! See? See?
I'm not going to bother listing everything that makes Signs an ineffective effort. If you've read this far, you already agree with me. If you don't, you probably also liked 1941. They're calling him "the next Spielberg". Thanks to his latest, I fear they may be right. My words to the auteur-I liked you better when you were hungry.