Twenty-five years ago, on Aug. 6, 1999, âThe Sixth Senseâ hit theaters, and the horror movie and its director M. Night Shyamalan became worldwide sensations.
Thrilled, Post critic Rod Dreher said in his review of the Bruce Willis classic that ââThe Sixth Sense,â written and directed by a precocious young Philadelphian named M. Night Shyamalan, is the summerâs biggest surprise.â
Commenting on its iconic ending â the kind of cinematic water cooler moment that doesn’t exist anymore â he added, âItâs the only shock in âThe Sixth Senseâ greeted not with a shriek, but with a gasp at how masterfully plotted this superb film is.â
The movie was nominated for the Oscar for Best Picture (back when there were only five nominees), and Shyamalan made the cut for Best Director.
But a quarter century is an awfully long time ago. âMasterfully plottedâ and âsuperbâ are no longer words the public associates with Shyamalan.
A young Haley Joel Osment mightâve seen dead people, but these days I see a dead career â M. Nightâs.
With âThe Sixth Sense,â the writer-director simultaneously broke out and peaked. The man has never made a movie even half as good since. And, believe you me, itâs not for lack of trying.
The most frightening part of Shyamalanâs recent films is attending them, so bad they are.
His projects amount to little more than over-excited, puffed-up pitches that drone on and on.
(Weirdly, Shyamalan also wrote âStuart Littleâ).
But because of the brilliant payoff of âSixth Senseâ â up there with âI am your fatherâ from âThe Empire Strikes Backâ â audiences rightly expect these outlandish ideas to deliver big-time.
They rarely, if ever, do. And the action, such as it is, that precedes the final twist has become increasingly hackneyed and tedious.
Take last weekendâs ridiculous âTrap,â a slog about a serial killer whoâs sought by the FBI during a stake-out at a T-Swift-like concert.
A dopey Josh Hartnett, as the murderer, spends most of the 100 minutes checking if various doors are locked while spouting off asinine dialogue.
In last yearâs âKnock at the Cabin,â four creeps take two men and their daughter prisoner until one agrees to sacrifice himself. A good time was had by none.
I thought âOld,â about a beach where the inhabitants rapidly deteriorate, was an improvement. It was fun, at least.
But I nonetheless wrote that it was âcampy, poorly written, candy-colored and subtle as Eurovision.â
Hereâs how Post critics have judged M. Nightâs exhausting oeuvre over the years.
âThe Villageâ: âa dud too intent on delivering its liberal âmessageââ
âThe Last Airbenderâ: âfinally hits rock bottom.â
âThe Lady in the Waterâ: âa charmless, unscary, fatuous and largely incoherent fairy tale.â
âAfter Earthâ: âa vaguely L. Ron Hubbard-ish story, for what is laughably described in the press notes as a ‘franchise.’”
âThe Happeningâ: âItâs just setup, setup, setup, the end.â
There have been some bright-ish spots. James McAvoyâs 23-personality performance in âSplitâ was well-regarded. And critics generally OKâd the creepy grandparents-house movie âThe Visit,â even if audiences gave it a measly 52% on RottenTomatoes.
But M. Night’s winners come around about as often as a total solar eclipse.
Perhaps one day, the director will rediscover the spark of filmmaking ingenuity that put him on the map in the first place. But don’t hold your breath.
Instead, give the fantastic âSixth Senseâ a rewatch, and youâll encounter the greatest twist of all:
âI see an actually good M. Night Shyamalan movie!â