While the superhero movies in our recent glut have started to get meta—the Avengers debating their place in society, Deadpool snarking on his surroundings—genre-obsessed writer-director M. Night Shyamalan thinks we havent spent enough time dissecting and, in the process, lionizing these oft-repeated tropes. So he set about doing the analysis himself, beginning 19 years ago with Unbreakable, then continuing with the surprise-its-a-sequel horror piece Split, in 2017. With his new film, Glass, (out January 18), he concludes his grand essay on superheroes (and villains) and their place in American lore. In doing so, he makes an argument for reining in the fantastic spectacle of these juggernaut films, seeking a kind of superhero purity—one only he, of course, can truly realize.
In that way, Glass is a bit of a vanity project, as so many Shyamalan films are. Hes happy as ever to revel in his designs, to breathlessly comment on the cleverness of his own construction. But his insights into superherodoms conventions arent terribly deep or revelatory. Glass is simply Shyamalan giving a book report on the basic structure of comic-caper narratives. Theres something endearing about his eagerness to explain these simple things, to show us what he knows. But Glass still suffers for that pedantic self-seriousness. Regular moviegoers are so steeped in this stuff that we have it down by heart; we dont really need the Nightsplaining.
To best understand Glass, all its rules and the contours of its mythology, you should see the first two films in this trilogy—though eventually, Shyamalan lays it all out again, because he cant help but stand back and appreciate all that hes made. The gist is this: Bruce Williss reluctant hero from Unbreakable haunts the streets of Philadelphia as a hooded vigilante, while James McAvoys multiple-personality menace from Split is still at large, occasionally becoming the Beast, an animalistic agent of death with a messianic ego. (Hes not to be confused with Beast, the gentle blue bookworm from the X-Men.) Before too long, the two are brought together at a mental ward, along with Samuel L. Jacksons wicked mastermind Mr. Glass, to be cured of their superhero complexes by a soothing psychiatrist played by Sarah Paulson.
Its through her, and gradually others, that Shyamalan launches his rhetoric: starchy and repetitive explication of the movies themes, presumably amassing toward some grand climax. But what results from all this chewing is actually surprisingly—and admirably?—small. Shyamalan ultimately upends our expectation, our rote appetite, for a huge C.G.I. melee. I like that temerity, the one that keeps the film so zeroed-in on these characters and their struggle for their own mythos. Theres probably something a bit autobiographical in there, Shyamalan insisting that his modest scale is plenty. It gives Glass a tinge of the quaint, a refreshing sensation after all these years of maximalism. The movie is still pretty silly, of course, but its sins—its fussiness, its preening pretension—are more forgivable than, say, Suicide Squads useless nihilism, or Deadpools acrid smugness.
Glass looks great, too. Shyamalan and cinematographer Mike Gioulakis compose each frame—sharp and crisp—with a careful offness. As has almost always been the case, Shyamalans command of camera and composition far surpasses his abilities as a screenwriter—although the sober goofiness of Glasss script does fit kinda nicely with the films mannered, alluring aesthetic. Theres a thoroughness to its auteurship, at least—a cozy trip back to Shyamalans brief aughts-era heyday, when so many of us hung on his every heavy word. He also remains amiably committed to the idea that every crazy thing in the world could happen in Philadelphia, and I felt disarmingly glad to be invited into his gloomy and looming city once more.
Willis, Jackson, and McAvoy are more reasons to pardon Glasss indulgences—particularly McAvoy, tasked as he is with one of the wildest jobs in what is now a studio franchise. He shows a tenacious commitment as he jumps wildly from one personality to another. I like him best as Patricia, an officious and sinister British lady, and least as Hedwig, a lisping nine-year-old who feels too much like an acting-class project. As the Beast, McAvoy is alarming, straining his muscles and tendons in what is the scariest body horror in a movie strangely chock-full of it. Though a scene in which he shirtlessly squeezes a guy to death had me thinking maybe that wouldnt be the worst way to go.
If you have any friends who are particular fans of this curious and turgid series, I suggest you see Glass with them, as their enthusiasm for all of the films onanistic insistence might prove infectious. It did for me, anyway, and I left Glass feeling less annoyed by Shyamalan doing his thing than I may have in the past. Its actually a little fun to have him around again, demanding our awe. And there were moments during Glass, particularly when West Dylan Thordsons dreamy score was gently crescendoing, when I almost saw that marvelous thing—the one Shyamalan so ardently sees when he closes his eyes.
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