The reintroduction of M Night Shyamalan offered the kind of specifically alluring comeback narrative that a certain generation was compelled to blindly support. Those of us who came of age with the flashy writer-director’s pack-em-in event movies could easily remember the flurry of excitement that came with each one – a rare example of a figure behind the scenes becoming as instantly famous as those in front.
His downfall, with movies so heinous that a snarky fund was once set up to send him back to film school, allowed us to see someone lose all of their instincts in crushing real time and fall prey to considerable ego; the guy who crafted Oscar-nominee The Sixth Sense ended his run as star director with four Razzie contenders in a row boasting an average Rotten Tomatoes rating of 15%. His work had lost all personality, the film-maker reduced to just some hack hired to direct big, dumb studio fare like The Last Airbender and After Earth – so new Shyamalan pictures were met with less intrigue and more frustration.
