Halloween Horror: The Village (2004)
When The Village debuted in the summer of 2004 it marked the first dent in the then sterling reputation of director M. Night Shyamalan, who was coming off his early successes, The Sixth Sense (1999), Unbreakable (2000), and Signs (2002). While I would describe the initial reaction to the film as more “mixed” than “negative”—I recall liking the film enough the first time around to recommend it, and the Cahier du Cinéma had it third on their year-end top ten—most critics and audiences were beginning to tire of what they saw as Shyamalan’s reliance on twist endings. Although I would argue that describing The Village as a “twist” film doesn’t really do it justice, one cannot fault audiences for focusing on the magnitude of the film’s climactic revelation, which certainly draws the most attention, especially upon first viewing. Rewatching the film two decades after its release with full knowledge of its surprises, however, reveals the film’s virtues and limitations in a different light. I may not be able to offer it a full-throated defense like I did upon my revisit of Signs, but The Village is certainly far from a failure: as with Signs, its filled with bold ideas, rich characters, and formal excellence, even if the overall plot cannot fuel the same thrills upon rewatch that it did initially.
Like most Shyamalan films, The Village deals with narrative reversals and revelations, but ultimately The Village is more interested in posing an ethical and moral dilemma than with simply pulling the rug out from under us. Of course a plot twist reframes our understanding of the choices that the characters have made, but more than most films of this type, The Village’s final revelation significantly shapes the experience of revisiting it. Rather than simply allowing the viewer to relive the characters’ actions from a perspective of dramatic irony, rewatching this film completely reconfigures our feelings towards the characters and their choices. What on an initial viewing may be interpreted as character ticks or ignorance become metanarrative reflections on the characters’ performing for the other characters and their culpability in the plot development.
As I won’t be able to discuss the effect of the film’s reversals and revelations on a second viewing without actually stating them, the rest of the review will make no attempt to suppress spoilers. So, for those few who wish to remain unspoiled after all this time, turn away now.
The Village tells the story of an intentional community living in the wilderness of 19th-century Pennsylvania. The community has turned their backs on the dangers of the world for the shelter of their small, simple life in an unnamed village. The village is surrounded by woods filled with nameless monster-like creatures. Wearing red cloaks like something out of a fairy tale, these monsters keep villagers from straying far and, in turn, explain the village’s isolation and lack of visitors.
The protagonist is a young blind woman, Ivy Walker (Bryce Dallas Howard, in her first leading performance). When tragedy strikes her brooding and inquisitive suitor, Lucius (Joaquin Phoenix), she must venture through the woods to seek medical help from a nearby town. Her venture sets off a series of revelations, some for the viewers and some for the characters: first, Ivy learns from her father, the village elder, Robert Walker (William Hurt), that the monsters in the woods are in fact the village elders dressed up as monsters in order to dissuade anyone from leaving. The elders of the village keep many secrets from the next generation, including black boxes containing unknown items that are off limits for the youth. After Ivy leaves, Walker and his wife open up their box and reveal a photo of themselves and their fellow elders outside a modern-day counselling centre, revealing that it is not actually the 19th century, but rather the late 20th or early 21st century. When Ivy finally makes it beyond the woods, she encounters a young man in a truck, and the viewer realizes that the whole community is actually situated in a nature preserve isolated from the rest of the world. However, Ivy’s blindness keeps her from realizing this. When she returns to the village with the medicine, the elders are faced with the choice of whether to keep their experiment going or to end it. The film concludes indeterminately as to what choice they will make.
There are other significant subplots, one involving a mentally disabled young man, Noah (played by Adrian Brody in a performance that butts up against Robert Downey Jr.’s infamous dictum in Tropic Thunder), whose jealousy leads him to stab Lucius and set the second half of the film in motion. Additionally, there’s a love triangle between Ivy, her younger sister Kitty (another Kitty played by Judy Greer, before her hilarious turn on Arrested Development), and Lucius; a cut away from Kitty’s heartfelt soliloquy of love to her sobbing, clearly rejected by Lucius, is simultaneously heartbreaking and clearly meant to be played for laughs. Taken alongside other such moments, the film often has an odd tone. All this is accentuated by the mannered dialogue and intentionally archaic language of the villagers.
Alongside some of the awkwardness, however, are aspects of cinematic excellence. There are scenes of genuine creepiness and thrills, all wonderfully shot by master cinematographer Roger Deakins. As in Signs, Shyamalan keeps the monsters hidden for much of the film, for obvious reasons. A scene earlier in the film when the monsters first violate the border of the woods and enter the village sets off the film’s most sustained thrills. A splash of red on the screen is enough to send a chill up the viewer's spine. Less is more and Shyamalan heeds well the notion that monsters are often scarier with restricted screen time. The film also plays with the fact of Ivy’s blindness, often having her fail to notice the monsters, which lends the first part of the film a great deal of suspense.
Unfortunately, much of the film’s thriller appeal, especially the creepiness I just recounted of the monsters in the woods, is muted or undone by the knowledge of the film’s revelations. It just doesn’t thrill the same the second time. Unlike the ghosts in The Sixth Sense or the aliens in Signs, which still scare—because they are real—despite knowing the ending of those films, the monsters in The Village are more a curiosity once they are defanged. Once we know they aren’t real and the characters are not in danger, the monsters cease to be scary. Subsequent viewing of the film then shifts the viewers’ attention almost entirely to the overarching concept and the moral dilemma of the elders’ choice to lie to their children to keep them safe.
In one of the film’s most conceptually and formally daring moments, however, the film seems to momentarily double back on the viewer. It’s a gamble to introduce the twist that the monsters aren’t real so early in the film. After Robert explains to Ivy that the monsters are fake and she sets off on her journey, Ivy encounters one in the woods. Upon a first viewing, Robert’s prior revelation has led the viewer into a sense of security, only to make us doubt it. The character has been revealed to be a liar. Can we trust him? Or does the appearance of the monster mean Robert is in fact wrong? Are the monsters real? Does he even know for sure? The sequence resolves in tragedy with Ivy tricking the monster into impalement, when it is revealed that it is actually Noah in the costume, having escaped his confinement. But for a moment the film almost gets you.
Unfortunately, on subsequent viewing, even this formally interesting doubling back and deployment of the first twist against the audience cannot work the same way. On second viewing, knowing it is Noah in a costume, the sequence plays more as a morbid tragedy than anything. But maybe that is appropriate to the thematic concerns of the film. I guess the effectiveness of the film and its twists and turns depends on if you go to the film for thrills or just for the ideas.
Much of the drama of the film hinges on themes of grief and fear and how they can drive us to seemingly irrational or heroic ends. We get flashbacks and hints from each of the elders about the grief that drove them to create the village— “This village is full of secrets!” Robert explains that it was the murder of his wealthy father, whose fortune allowed them to create “the village,” that drove him to grief, while others lost children or lovers to violent crime. While the self-isolation of an intentional community could be seen as an exaggerated version of what the Amish and other isolationist sects pursue, this particular plan and the logistics of keeping the next generation ignorant through fairy tale monsters is so elaborate, that it frankly, strikes me as philosophically demented.
Stated plainly, the elders have created a world seemingly haunted by supernatural horrors in order to preserve their children from the more mundane horrors of the modern world (muggings, rapes, murders). Sure, you can argue that real-life violence can be more horrific, but it’s the classic dilemma of the “noble lie:” is it worth it to maintain fictions of this kind if it is determined that the benefits outweigh the cost? Can people handle the truth? It’s no coincidence that Plato’s allegory of the cave is often invoked in relation to this film. However, the allegory here involves not just revelation, but concealment. It’s one thing for people to embrace certain fictions in order to block out more disturbing realities, but it’s another to foist them upon another generation. The elders themselves have no delusions that the monsters are real. They are prepared to lie in the name of what they have convinced themselves is the greater good.
Of course, human nature isn’t stopped at the borders of the village. Noah’s mental disability affects his ability to make moral decisions, leading to the attempted murder of Lucius. Lucius himself is described as a fearless and curious, if self-serious, individual. Is it right to keep him from exploring and developing this aspect of himself? The fallout of the decisions the elders have made cannot keep evil out, since, to paraphrase the much quoted Alexander Solzhenitsyn, the line between good and evil lies not between the village and the woods, but through the middle of each human heart.
Such discussion suggests that The Village could be read as a religious allegory: people make up stories about supernatural threats and other things they themselves don’t believe in to preserve the social order. But the film doesn’t quite resolve into a critique of religion in quite that way. I also don’t think Shyamalan would think that all religious leaders are feigning belief. In fact, Shyamalan, as in Signs, seems mostly on the side of the mysterious and religious.
The Village then is a bit of an allegorical grab bag that plays differently today than at the time. In its initial release, in the thick of the context of the “War on Terror,” its stance on the question of freedom versus security put the elders in the position of the government and their violation of citizens rights in favour of security. Thus, the film could be read as engaging with laws such as The Patriot Act. In some ways, Shyamalan anticipates some of the questions that would drive Nolan’s Dark Knight Trilogy. In our current post-Covid era of cascading crises, the film would seem to embrace a fantasy of isolation and safety-ism that would find many eager adherents across the political spectrum: safety and harm-reduction for the progressive faction, isolationist rhetoric among nationalists. As well, in 2024, its approach to disability, with its blind and mentally disabled characters whose disabilities are frequently exploited for cinematic effects, may be a bit much for some viewers to roll with.
So, we have a film with a muddled philosophy, open to conflicting interpretations, but featuring a strong formal control that is at odds with the overwrought themes. The formal elements show a restraint and subtlety that is rare among blockbusters, especially in its fine performances from its leads. Bryce Dallas Howard has never been better than here in her debut, portraying Ivy as both kind and brave in a compelling way; Phoenix and Hurt are very good, managing to wrap their tongues around the faux-archaic language while still giving strong performances; only Brody, in his Oscar follow-up role, is awkward and doesn’t quite hit the right notes. It has a massive cast, especially in retrospect; in addition to Brody, Phoenix, and Hurt, its supporting cast features early roles for Jesse Eisenberg and Michael Pitt, as well as the first lead for the aforementioned Howard. Sigourney Weaver makes the most of her scenes as Lucius’ mother, and Brendan Gleeson is good (as always) playing a grieving father. One of the film’s strongest moments upon rewatch is how these elder characters deal, in suppressed fashion, with their own conflicted moral dilemmas.
At one point, it becomes clear that Hurt’s Robert Walker and Weaver’s Alice Hunt have feelings for each other, but Robert is a moral man and faithful husband. There is a moment when he reveals that he made the decision to let Ivy go for help for Lucius’s sake as a gesture to her—“It is all that I can give you,” he says to her, attempting to show his love without betraying his marriage. The film is at its best when it reaches for a nuanced exploration of its main themes. In contrast, other times the themes play like Philosophy and Ethics 101 thought experiments, which overwhelms the thriller and dramatic elements, especially on subsequent viewings.
The Village is a finely acted and beautifully shot film. It poses real questions, even if the solutions it offers border on absurd. Still, more so than most Shyamalan films or other films with major twists, knowledge of the film’s revelations robs some of the biggest moments of their impact on rewatch. The Village isn’t even close to being the nadir of Shymalan’s career (for me, that would be his next film, The Lady in the Water, a film that could not contain its flawed ambition and allegorical reach), nor is it a secret masterpiece awaiting rediscovery. It’s certainly an ambitious film that I can respect, and actually does more to avoid the simpler “twist” nature of Shymalan’s previous three films than popular memory would have, by deploying twists earlier and having the viewer reevaluate them in the midst of watching. In the end, revisiting The Village reveals some of the film’s more subtle merits, yet confirms the lack of cinematic verve it provided on initial viewing.
6 out of 10
The Village (2004, USA)
Written and directed by M. Night Shyamalan; starring Joaquin Phoenix, Bryce Dallas Howard, Adrian Brody, William Hurt, Sigourney Weaver, Brendan Gleeson, Judy Greer, Jesse Eisenberg, Michael Pitt, Cherry Jones.
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