Friday, Great Movies, 9:00pm
M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs (2002) is one of those films that sneaks up on you—not unlike its lanky, water-averse extraterrestrial antagonists. On the surface, it’s a classic alien invasion story, but at its core, Signs is about faith, grief, and Mel Gibson looking perpetually stunned. Joaquin Phoenix plays his ex-baseball player brother, whose primary function is to wield a bat like he’s gearing up for the World Series of alien whack-a-mole. The story unfolds in a small Pennsylvania farmhouse, where a widowed priest (Gibson) and his family encounter eerie crop circles, shadowy figures, and news reports of a global extraterrestrial presence—culminating in an unnervingly claustrophobic battle for survival.
James Newton Howard’s score is a masterclass in minimalist terror, proving that sometimes, less really is more. The main theme, a repetitive three-note motif, creates an atmosphere of dread reminiscent of Bernard Herrmann’s work in Psycho. The tension in the soundtrack builds with almost surgical precision, using silence as effectively as sound—something horror composers don’t always appreciate. The string-heavy orchestration and rhythmic motifs heighten the paranoia, ensuring that even a simple glass of water feels ominous (which, to be fair, it is for the aliens). It’s a score that doesn’t just accompany the fear—it amplifies it.
Shyamalan has always been a filmmaker who thrives on atmosphere, and Signs is arguably one of his best examples of controlled storytelling. While some viewers took issue with the aliens’ vulnerability to water (not the best survival trait for a species invading a planet that’s 70% ocean), the film succeeds because it’s not really about the invasion—it’s about rediscovering faith in a world that feels chaotic and meaningless. Think of it as War of the Worlds meets The X-Files, but with a healthier respect for hydration.