Signs Is For The Birds
We rarely find out why things go wrong. Let’s suppose that a plane crashes. We may learn that there was too much ice on the wings and the plane couldn’t stay aloft. Why was their too much ice? Because it was exceptionally cold and the ground crew didn’t apply the de-icer solution correctly. Why was it so cold and why were they derelict? Because the jet stream shifted and they were distracted by financial and marital problems. Why did the jet stream shift and why did they have financial and marital problems?
The questions don’t stop. For
every layer uncovered there’s another just beneath. In our collective ignorance, there comes a
point where we have to accept the whatever and trudge on.
In The Birds, Alfred
Hitchcock’s long-awaited follow-up to Psycho,
we’re confronted with a world gone bezerk, where science is no aid, and there
is nothing left but fear, struggle, and a residue of hope (symbolized,
ironically, by lovebirds).
In M.
Night Shyamalan’s Signs, released
thirty-nine years later, this time the unstoppable menace isn’t birds, but
aliens. But here’s the twist—unlike in The Birds, the question of God’s role is
thoroughly examined and there is a
way to win (and it’s nothing of our own doing).
Signs is the true successor to The Birds. Signs manages to pay homage to its esteemed predecessor without sacrificing its own identity, style, and message. Both films stage their climax at a rural house boarded up to repel invasion. Both movies rely on sound to convey the terror of a hidden threat, such that we can construct the horror in our minds.
But Signs allows closure, and
completes the tale of terror in ignorance and impotence that The Birds left unresolved. And though Signs is dismissed as a slick entertainer, it is in most respects
superior to The Birds.
One of the biggest problems with The
Birds is that it asks us to believe that the main characters (who unlike
the birds, should display purpose and reason) decide to stay in the Brenner
house after the town is crushed. Why not
just leave? After all, they have no
understanding that the attacks are occurring elsewhere. In Signs
the family members fight about this momentous choice of staying or going. And if they were to go, they’d still be at
risk, since the whole world is under attack (Mel Gibson’s Graham Hess can’t
take his adopted they-don’t-like-water theory to the bank at this point in the
story. [Just as he abandoned God, he’s
willing to abandon home; the past means nothing to him anymore.]) Thus, we can accept the final assault because
we still sympathize with the characters.
We would have chosen as they chose, so we’re in the house with
them.
The Birds gives us a pittance
of a scene in which Lydia and Mitch talk of leaving. Mitch has already boarded up the house and
thinks another attack is imminent. So
basically the film is cheating us by not having the characters discuss this
while there’s still time, before
Mitch starts barricading the house.
Another problem with The Birds
is poor characterization. Jessica Tandy’s
Lydia Brenner is the only major character who is allowed to let the attacks get
to her. What happens to Annie Hayworth
is accomplished off-screen, Mitch Brenner is macho-stoic, and Tippi Hedren’s
Melanie Daniels just flails her arms.
The characters are mere ciphers, and while the actors inhabit such
limited roles efficiently, and everybody has some good moments, it’s hardly
enlightening or engrossing. We start
rooting for the birds!
In Signs we never root for the
aliens. They are malevolent and the human
characters are nuanced, funny, and endearing.
Indeed, Mel Gibson is a power house in his role as a burned-out
skeptic. He plays rage, compassion, and
fear in unpredictable ways. His
character anchors the film and is the ideal protagonist for the audience to
latch on to.
Melanie Daniels is facing troubles of her own. She’s motherless and adrift. But her arch-coyness gets old, fast. And her goal is just to win Mitch Brenner
without dying in the process. Graham is
trying to save his family and have a show-down with God. Now, that’s a goal.
The big questions in The Birds
are given voice in the Tides Restaurant.
Everyone wants to know why this happened. Is it a Commie plot? Is it God’s revenge? Perhaps it’s all a big misunderstanding. Or, better yet, Melanie Daniels is an agent
of Satan!
No one has a decent idea. And
that’s good. Some bad things happen for
no (apparent) good reason. Thus, there’s
no answer, and with the film ending as our characters drive off into oblivion,
there’s no resolution. The movie ends,
but the story doesn’t. The feel is very
European for an American film. And while
there doesn’t have to be answers if the questions are good (and the questions
posed by The Birds are excellent), when
we’re saddled with bad characters and nonsensical plotting, the whole
enterprise still suffers.
Admittedly, Signs is not wholly original. It lifts from more films besides The Birds. But what sets Signs apart from The Birds more than anything is its music. The Birds has no score. And it doesn’t matter how elegantly synthesized are the supposed bird sounds that provide accompaniment for the attacks. The Birds needs the insight and boost that only a score can provide.
Signs, on the other hand,
boasts one of the best scores ever written.
It may not be much to listen to on its own, but it echoes and amplifies
the spiritual turmoil of the characters.
Composer James Newton Howard relies on a three-note motif that is
thunderously stated in the solitary opening titles. (An aggressively malevolent musical opening
paired with a solitary title sequence is a very rare occurrence, and
immediately sets the film apart.) The
music provides a tease of later action, as a good overture should, and it
introduces the material that will be developed throughout the score.
While The Birds generates some
excitement through cutting (most notably in the crows-amassing-on-the-jungle-gym
scene), the film does nothing half as audacious as what Signs gives us. Signs may be the first movie to cut away
to a flashback in the middle of its climactic sequence. Recall that once the Hesses emerge from the
cellar it seems the crisis has passed.
Merrill goes for the asthma medicine and Graham wheels out the
television. Then we see, reflected in
the screen, the creature holding Morgan hostage. As Graham tries to summon the strength and
wisdom to make a final stand, we’re transported by to his wife’s death, which we’ve
never seen before. Now, if this
flashback didn’t give us (and Graham) important information, it would just be
an editorial indulgence to be scorned.
But we are given important information, and it makes sense that Graham would
recall this tragedy now, for he’s once again preparing to lose a loved
one. Morgan seems doomed. The tension is stretched to the absolute max
because we’re denied a real-time resolution to the crisis. We’re forced to wait. This sort of thing would normally be
accomplished through cross-cutting. But
there’s no other story to follow. We
can’t be shown Merrill getting the medicine; there’s nothing to that. Another possibility is slow-motion, but that
would be hackneyed, clichéd, and insulting.
Therefore, this very bold editing choice was Shyamalan’s master stroke. Because of Graham’s recollection via the flashback, the meaning of “swing away” finally becomes clear. It’s not like Merrill is the only one who can hit the alien hard enough. “Swing away” is more a reminder that there’s a weapon just hanging there on the wall. It’s a weapon that wouldn’t be there if Merrill had not been a great home run hitter in the minors. And it’s a weapon that would not have been there had Colleen not died. The bat is Merrill’s, and it’s only there because he moved in, and he only moved in because Colleen died. So she had to die to save the rest of the family. And on top of that, if Merrill had not been the strike-out king, he’d be in the majors. Thus, he never would have moved in (and neither would the bat).
It all adds up, and the bat plus the water glasses plus the asthma (the
three signs?) are not the contrivance naysayers would have us believe.
The Birds also boasts a
climactic scene occurring after it appears the threat has passed. But this one really makes no
sense. Melanie Daniels hears rustling
upstairs. Everyone else is asleep and,
felling guilty, she doesn’t want to bother waking up Mitch. So she grabs a flashlight and goes up to
check. There’s no indication of what she
thinks she can accomplish. If the birds
are in the house, what is she going to do about it? She opens the door and is stunned to find a
huge hole in the ceiling. By this point
she has stupidly stepped into the room.
And when the birds attack she manages to close the door behind her
instead of falling back through the doorway and then shutting the
door. Melanie is then ‘raped’ by the
birds. It’s harrowing and
stomach-churning. BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN? Like most of the movie, it means nothing. Or, to be more generous, it’s all symbols,
overtones, and impressions that can generate meaning for an audience adept at proactive
interpretation.
It’s said that the movie’s about complacency, it’s about isolation, it’s
about the necessity of being genuine.
But what’s the story? Where
are the character arcs? Where’s the
conflict? There’s some between the
characters, but the enemy is the birds.
Does the enemy win? If they want
to kill Melanie, then no. If they want
to drive Melanie away, then yes. There’s
a fine line between admirable ambiguity and lazy ambiguity. The
Birds falls on the side of lazy ambiguity.
This isn’t nuanced storytelling that promotes wonder and
imagination. This is a cop-out that
generates resentment and frustration. A
first-time viewer of The Birds will
easily feel cheated.
The aliens in Signs are
similarly ill-defined. We don’t know
what their goals are, either. However,
by the end of Signs it is clear that
(to borrow Hitchcock’s famous term) the aliens were a MacGuffin, a device, a
mechanism to set a plot into motion that would, in this instance, see the lead
character’s reconciliation to God. So
even though the enemy is ill-defined, the purpose was served. What’s the purpose of the bird attacks? Let’s not ask why they attack, but let’s ask
why Hitchcock has them attack. In the end, Mitch and Melanie are closer than
they would have been, Melanie has become a big sister to Cathy, and Lydia has,
perhaps, replaced Melanie’s long-lost mother.
So maybe the main characters are doing better, in terms of having
meaningful relationships. But they can’t
be happy seeing Bodega Bay destroyed and the Brenner house in shambles. Did Hitchcock create these characters just to
brutalize them?
The Birds, for all its amazing technique and extraordinary practical and optical effects, is a hollow, noisy tale that doesn’t enlighten or encourage; it’s intriguing, but only fitfully entertaining. Signs is funny, thrilling, engrossing, unnerving, and uplifting. We can admire Hitchcock for all he overcame to produce The Birds, but that admiration cannot extend to the film, itself (which is a gross disappointment that never leaves the nest). Coming on the heels of the brilliant Psycho, it may be the biggest disappointment of Hitchcock’s career.
Signs will stand as M. Night Shyamalan’s greatest film. It doesn’t rely on the trick endings of The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable which discourage repeat viewing. And Shyamalan’s been in a rut ever since Signs came out, so it’s unlikely he’ll ever be better. But with a solid oeuvre, topped by Signs, Shyamalan deserves a place in the top rank of contemporary filmmakers. And the many great films that Alfred Hitchcock’s works have inspired just go to show that the legacy of the Master of Suspense transcends his own 53 films. The relevancy of his work will be apparent in all the films that copy him in the years to come.
