Giamatti deserves special credit for doing his damndest to deliver a real performance here, but his authenticity in bringing to life the anguished, stuttering schlub that is Cleveland works against whatever spell Shyamalan tries to conjure. Cleveland, not unlike Mel Gibson's character in the director's 2002 Signs, has withdrawn from most of the world after a tragedy shattered his faith. Why, then, does he instantly buy into Story and her increasingly convoluted Blue World rules and mythology? Even better, why does practically everybody else in the building instantly go with it without question as well? Maybe Shyamalan intended this giant leap to read as a metaphor about how every grown-up is eager and ready to find something greater in which to believe in their mundane existence, but such a theme is clumsily conveyed at best, downright stupid at worst.

It also doesn't help that the magic of this would-be magic realist world isn't the slightest bit alluring, which would've gone a long way toward explaining why everyone in the building is immediately drawn in. Story, with her perpetually limp locks, zombie-pale skin, equally frozen visage, and droning voice to match is quite simply an incredible drag all around--she's rather creepy to look at, and the purple prose that's solemnly whispered out of her mouth is more likely to strike bone-chillng fear than foster exuberant creative inspiration. The feeling she is said to inspire, akin to "pins and needles" as the audience is told, doesn't exactly sound like a sensation that would lead anyone, much less a Chosen One (more on this doozy a little later), to craft a world- and history-changing magnum opus of art and thought. As if it weren't already difficult enough to go with the flow, according to Shyamalan's script the narf mythology derives from a Korean bedtime story--and so the bulk of the heavy, neverending exposition comes via tedious and often downright insulting scenes of a heavily-accented, skanky Korean party girl tenant (Cindy Cheung) translating her non-English-speaking mother's explanations in rough, rather offensive "Me So Horny"-level pidgin English. The talk of narfs and The Blue World are already difficult to take when delivered straight; how can we possibly take it the slightest bit seriously or have even a twinge of investment when the pertinent information is given by stereotype joke characters? Worse still, just when one thinks they have everything with the narfs and the scrunts straight, then Shyamalan introduces new wrinkles and rules to the mythology; I'm not going to even go into what the "tartutic" and "The Great Eatlon" are, or how the interpretation of cereal box images (!) comes into play. (Actually, I'm still trying to figure out how that one came about myself.) The neverending web of new convolutions--needless ones, no less, as ultimately it's still simply about trying to send the narf back home--betray what is by stated conception a kid-friendly fairy tale bedtime story. The reality may be that Shyamalan made up his bedtime tale as it went along when he first told it to his kids, but there's no good reason why a film derived from it should feel like it is.

But no one dare question the story Shyamalan tries to tell and how he chooses to tell it, and that such smug, self-justification finds its way into the very narrative of Lady in the Water is what finally pushes the film from already overstuffed, undercooked mess to a landmark of catastrophic indulgence. The writer whose über-profound musings will go on to inspire future world leaders and form the impetus to large-scale global sociopolitical change is played by none other than the writer-director himself. His character--no less than the third lead behind Giamatti and Howard--may not bear his own name, but he might as well, as there's no excuse to cast himself in such a large role (after all, talented South Asian actors who would've nailed this part with far more expression and empathy, such as a Saif Ali Khan or an Abhishek Bachchan, were just a phone call away) other than to make his statement blatantly clear: M. Night Shyamalan is the Vessel of Story. Doubt that at your peril--lest you meet the same fate as Farber (Bob Balaban), a fussy film and book critic whose ceaselessly cynical ways lead him to being at the wrong place at the wrong time with a scrunt. The character and Balaban's rather hilarious performance are probably the most amusing aspects of the film, but in the end one realizes that he really doesn't have much purpose in the grand scheme--other than to be proven "wrong" and pay dearly for it.

Perhaps the saddest part of Lady in the Water is that Shyamalan is definitely a talented filmmaker. Even in some of his heretofore lesser efforts there are moments of technical brilliance; for example, the nailbiting basement/flashlight scene in Signs and a key character's plot-pivoting stabbing in The Village. If the latter film's disastrous final third was his leap off of the cliff, then the whole of Lady in the Water signifies his plunge off of the deep end. I would love to see Shyamalan work a writing collaborator who would help hone and enhance his admittedly imaginative ideas while streamlining the indulgences--or better yet, apply his craft and technique to someone else's screenplay. But then again, what the hell do I know--I'm a lowly scrunt-bait critic deigning to question the very Vessel of Story.


Recommended:
No

Movie Mood: None of the Above
Viewing Method: Press Screening
Film Completeness: Looked complete to me.
Worst Part of this Film: Everything