THE VILLAGE (2004)

The Village (2004) is generally considered to be one of M. Night Shyamalan’s lesser efforts and, on the gradient of his films, with the all-timer The Sixth Sense (1999) on one pole and bombs like The Last Airbender (2010) and After Earth (2013) on the other, represents the juncture at which Shyamalan went from boy genius to hack in the estimation of the film critics.

As with his later effort Lady in the Water (2006), analyzed in an upcoming blog post, some of the criticism was an accident of history. The Village was released in the summer of 2004, a few months after the Abu Ghraib scandal became public knowledge, and against the backdrop of an increasingly runaway situation in Iraq, which war had begun in March 2003. Like other contemporary films with subtle and not-so-subtle anti-imperialist messages (Troy (2004) and Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith (2005) spring to mind), The Village attempted to tackle what was perceived as a growing sense of paranoia, fear-based manipulation, and “other”-ism taking root in American society. But less than 3 years after 9/11, with that wound fresh in the American psyche, and with wars in Iraq and Afghanistan buoyed by a largely (though not uniformly) supportive media, it was a bad time to be openly critical of the notion that the U.S. was besieged by enemies without and within, and the political message at the core of The Village struck the wrong notes. Dismissed in its time, it fell into the dustbin of history.

Thus, my purpose in analyzing The Village is threefold. First, I think it’s an underrated movie which never got its due and is worth a second look. Second, even though The Sixth Sense does it better, The Village is a solid template for how to create a twist ending, which, if done right, is one of the most enjoyable techniques in storytelling. And third, having pledged to not express any political opinions in my blog, I will say that The Village is instructional for how to convey a core political or sociological argument in a non-didactic way, so that a viewer gets to experience that idea while not being beaten over the head with it (lookin’ at you, late-2010’s “woke” culture).

To my first point, this movie sports a spectacular cast, with memorable performances by William Hurt and Bryce Dallas Howard, in particular. Adrian Brody, fresh off his Academy Award for Best Actor in 2002’s The Pianist, and future Best Actor Oscar Winner (Joker (2019)) Joaquin Phoenix, himself late of an all-time turn as Emperor Commodus in Gladiator (2000), both give understated, powerful performances in their respective roles. Sigourney Weaver and Brendan Gleason add additional gravitas.

I will leave the film’s politics for my afterthoughts. Suffice to say for now that, in Truby’s words, the designing principle of this story has (or had, in 2003-2004) a relevant “ripped from the headlines”-esque theme in its DNA, which pervades every frame, if you know where to look. Like the best stories, it is built around—or, more accurately, built from—a central idea, not retconned with heavy-handed on-the-nose dialogue and exposition.

As for my second purpose, the twist ending: this is a technique that, if done well, can transform an average story into a great one; see, e.g., The Usual Suspects (1995), The Prestige (2006), and the aforementioned The Sixth Sense. Much ink has been spilled about how to create a twist ending, and I see no reason to reinvent the wheel. In my own experience, I will offer the following guidance, which I think shines through in The Village. First, the old maxim about mystery writing is true: you do indeed need to know the ending and then work backwards. Actually, this is true of ALL good writing, as the ending always sets up the beginning. But it is especially true with a twist ending because not only must you know exactly where the story is going, you need to know how to set up that journey in a way that is both sleight of hand and playing fair with the reader or viewer. You cannot, in other words, “patch” a story into a twist plot: that will be obvious to the audience and likely offensive to their intelligence.[1] Second, as alluded to, the clues adding up to the twist ending must be doled out to the audience but in a subtle, matter-of-fact manner that they will be readily overlooked—until the end, that is. For a reader or viewer, the joy of a twist ending comes when they realize it was being set up all along, right under the audience’s nose, but that they didn’t see it coming. So, you cannot deliberately withhold information from your audience, nor can you make the clues so obvious that it gives away the game. Keeping these rules in mind, I will try to show how a twist plot like The Village comes together. If you don’t want the twist ruined, I would suggest watching the movie before reading any further.

Plot and Scene Weave

Story world/mystery: At the funeral for August’s 7-year-old son, Edward Walker, the chief elder of Covington Village, attempts to reassure the villagers that they made the right decision settling there. The date on the tombstone sets the story in 1897. An ominous moaning is heard from the nearby woods. Here, the audience is served with 2 huge clues, which very likely sailed over their heads. First, Edward’s brief speech hints at them having founded or come to the village within the living memory of at least some of the people. Given the scary moaning from about 500 yards away, this would seem a questionable decision. Second—and this still stands out in my mind 16 years later—the characters’ halting, dinner theater rendition of late Victorian, Dickensian English should have raised a red flag. Given that we know nothing about the deceased, his burial, though poignant, seems a little irrelevant for now. Or is it?

Mystery: Two young women find a red flower then quickly bury it. A man cloaked in yellow is seen atop a lookout tower at the edge of the woods. A mysterious figure cloaked in red is glimpsed in reflection in the woods. Color has deep symbolism in this film. Red, we will learn, is the “bad color,” while yellow represents the safety of the village. The village is an oasis of life surrounded by a place of death.

Mystery/exposition: Edward, comforting schoolchildren having found a mutilated fox, tells them that Those Who Cannot be Named (“TWCBN”), the denizens of the woods, have not breached the village’s borders, nor the villagers entered the woods, in many years. It should be clear that even if this is true, the villagers are on edge about it.

Protagonist/fake-ally opponent/plan/soft inciting incident: Lucius requests permission from the elders to cross through the woods to visit “the towns” and get medicine, confident he will not be harmed by TWCBN. Watching this film for the purposes of this blog, I will note that it has a unique structural take on its protagonist; specifically, its “protagonist” is really a character continuum, occupied by Lucius for the first half and Ivy for the second. Lucius and Ivy, who are lovers, take turns at center stage. In this scene, Lucius wants permission to enter the woods to satisfy his own curiosity, with obtaining medicines as a pretext. Later, Ivy will need to cross the woods to obtain medicines to save Lucius’ life. His initial courage and curiosity will, on the continuum, come to inhabit her. Lucius’ request, at this point, seems reasonable enough. Little do we know but it sets the narrative in motion. There is no true “opponent” in this story, although there are situational oppositions, which will be discussed later. However, given that the audience, at this point living vicariously through Lucius, is curious about TWCBN in the woods, the elders stand as a sort of monolithic fake-ally opponent—and it’s here that the political message starts becoming clearer. Pretending to be wise, benevolent protectors, the elders may or may not be manipulating the villagers for their own reasons.

Ghost: When asked by Lucius if he ever thinks of the towns, Finton replies that they are wicked places full of wicked people. Strong words from someone who has, presumably, never been there. And it’s clear that this anti-town attitude is conventional wisdom in Covington. Why?

Mystery/exposition/ fake-ally opponent: After the appearance of another dead fox, Alice, an elder, tries to reassure the villagers that the culprit is likely a rabid coyote, and that TWCBN are “much larger” than coyotes and their presence would have been noticed. In this version of “don’t think about a hippopotamus,” an elder seems to be simultaneously telling a scared, vulnerable population not to be afraid of monsters, while calling attention to the power and proximity of those monsters. Also, it’s clear that the elders control the flow of information to the villagers. Also, funny how that dead fox appeared so soon after Lucius badgering the elders about going to the towns.

Ghost/fake-ally opponent: August tells Lucius that “they” ran from sorrow, but that sorrow has a way of catching up to you, as he stares at a mysterious footlocker. Another big clue. “They” presumably means the elders, who founded or settled in the village. Building on the first scene, it provides some explanation why they came to the village, but still begs the question why they’d choose to go somewhere so potentially deadly. Surely, the sorrow they were fleeing must have been awful.

Protagonist/opponent: Ivy, who is blind, pulls Noah, who is mentally disabled, unpredictable, and potentially violent, from a scuffle. Instead of placing him in punishment in the “quiet room,” she makes him promise that he won’t hurt anyone, then leads him on a chase to Resting Rock, at the edge of the woods. There they find Lucius. The romantic tension between Ivy and Lucius, as well as the unrequited love Noah has for Ivy, become clear. Noah pranks Ivy by placing red berries in her hand. She says that color attracts TWCBN and must be buried. Given that Noah is the third wheel in the Ivy-Lucius-Noah triad, he is set up as being on a crash course against one or both of the others. Yes, the portrayal of a mentally disabled character as a ticking timebomb of violence does not hold up in 2020, even contrasted against a blind character who, as we will see, turns out to be the strongest character in the story. And given Noah’s simultaneous lack of agency and importance to the plot, it is a bit of Deus et machina. But the film does attempt to redeem his actions in the end.

Protagonist/plan/ fake-ally opponent: Lucius again tells the elders he wants to enter the woods, confident that TWCBN are not hostile and will allow him to pass. What’s the old adage? Curiosity did what to the cat?

Ghost/fake-ally opponent: In an echo of the earlier scene with Lucius and August, Alice, saying she will speak of the towns “only once” (apparently it’s anathema), tells Lucius the story of how his father was murdered, to dissuade him from leaving the village. Lucius asks about a lockbox, which Alice says cannot be opened because it holds secrets from her past. Lucius has realized that Covington’s dogmatic beliefs are not adding up. Also, we get another example of how an elder came to the village to escape a violent, sorrowful situation in the towns.

Decision/action: Lucius deliberately crosses into the woods, catches a fleeting glimpse of a figure, hears footsteps, but is not fazed.

Protagonist(s): Ivy and Lucius admit their love for each other. Their love will become the driving force behind Ivy’s actions once she assumes the protagonist role.

First attack by fake-ally opponent/first major reveal: Monsters cloaked in red infiltrate the village and paint red markings on the villagers’ doors. Lucius courageously sees to Ivy’s safety. So TWCBN are real monsters after all…

Mystery/fake-ally opponent/fake-opponent ally: The elders try to reassure the villagers that TWCBN entered the village only as a warning. Lucius confesses to having crossed the boundary and, as he believes, precipitated the infiltration. Edward reassures Lucius that he (Lucius) is braver than he (Edward) could ever be. Again, we have elders controlling information and villagers passively accepting it. Nary a torch or pitchfork in sight. Curiously, no one seems mad at Lucius for causing the incident, and Edward goes out of his way to applaud Lucius’ actions. Why is everyone so damn passive in the face of supernatural, mortal danger? And why does Edward seem genuinely proud of and impressed by Lucius? This is the moment where Edward starts to distance himself from the other elders and becomes, unlike them, a fake-opponent ally, rather than a fake-ally opponent. Unlike the other elders, there is some question as to whether Edward might have some doubts.

Ghost/fake-ally opponent: At Kitty’s wedding feast, Mrs. Clack, one of the elders, tells Ivy about her own older sister, who was raped and murdered at age 23. More backstory about the towns, which caused an elder to come to Covington, swapping sorrow and violence for living in the shadow of monsters.

Second attack by fake-ally opponent/fake-opponent ally/second major reveal: The wedding festival is interrupted by boys warning that TWCBN are in the village. The villagers find their homes festooned with bloody, skinned livestock. Behind a shed, Alice whispers to Edward that the village is filled with dead animals hung high enough that it could never be attributed to a coyote. Alice and Edward’s conversation is the point at which the story’s central mystery, to a canny audience, should start unspooling. Admit it, at first blush, you might have interpreted Alice’s whispered dialogue as the words of a woman too terrified to register any emotion. But then, on further reflection, maybe you noticed both Alice and Edward seem curiously calm and businesslike about what they’re discussing, almost as if Alice was reporting back to him. And make a mental note of that shed…

Protagonist(s): Lucius confesses that his greatest fear in the world is harm coming to Ivy, and they agree to get married. This fear will be transferred from one end of the protagonist spectrum (Lucius) to the other (Ivy).

Attack by opponent: Noah stabs Lucius in a jealous rage. As I said earlier, Noah is not the primary opponent in this story, but he is situationally opposed to certain characters. Noah is more or less the fly in the ointment, an agent of chaos a la Heath Ledger’s Joker in The Dark Knight (2008); the variable that cannot be accounted for by what we will learn is the master plan holding the community together. He is the vehicle by which the primary opponent(s) learn that control is just an illusion, although they will double-down on it in the end.

Protagonist/drive/plan/fake-ally opponent/fake opponent-ally/gate/gauntlet/visit to death: As Lucius clings to life, Ivy demands permission from Edward to travel through the woods to the towns and obtain medicines needed to save Lucius’ life. Victor, the surgeon, says he’s done all he can to save Lucius. Edward asks him if there were “no limits,” could more be done to help Lucius. Edward’s wife reminds him that he has taken an oath never to return to the towns, suggesting that one or more others have not taken such an oath. This is the point at which the character opposition web begins to crystallize into something resembling conventional structure. Ivy, highly motivated to take the baton from Lucius and enter the woods in a daring gambit to save his life, now stands in the protagonist’s place previously occupied by Lucius. The elders (at least for now) are united in opposition to the plan. Edward has, from necessity and fueled by his own guilt and doubt, openly allied himself with Ivy. Noah remains a sort of roving threat, although, as mentioned before, his questionable agency makes it difficult to call him a true “opponent.”

Protagonist/plan/fake opponent-ally/ghost/mystery: Edward tells Ivy that his own father was the wealthiest man in the towns but was murdered, but not before he encouraged Edward to always be a leader. He leads Ivy to “the shed that is not to be used” and cautions her to do her best not to scream. Now we know why Edward was sympathetic to Lucius and his example of courage and leadership. We also learn that the decision to come to Covington, noted way back in Scene 1, somehow proceeded from Edward’s own haunted past and desire to honor his father’s memory. And there’s that shed again—the same one Edward and Alice were standing next to when seemingly debriefing about the monster attack.

Action: Accompanied by Cristop and Finton, and carrying magic rocks that will supposedly protect them, Ivy enters the woods bound for the towns. Before abandoning her, Cristop asks why they’ve never heard about the rocks before, and why they are still wearing yellow cloaks if there’s nothing to fear. Good questions. Ivy has at this point “become” Lucius. His greatest fear (harm coming to her) is now her greatest fear but inverted (that Lucius will die). She is scared but forges ahead anyway.

Ghost/mystery/moral decision/third major reveal: Finton abandons Ivy and she dumps the magic rocks. In flashback, we see the scene in the shed, where Edward revealed to her that the monsters are fake, just frightening costumes which the elders created to keep the villagers from returning to the towns, which had been the source of so much pain and loss. He does, however, caution that were rumors of real monsters in the woods, which Edward knew about from being a history teacher in the towns. He gives Ivy instructions how to reach the towns. No, this reveal should not come as a shock. With the elders jealously guarding their positions as conduits of information, it should not be a surprise that they have in fact been manipulating the villagers, in a bizarre, misguided effort at creating a utopian society, held together by fear. But this reveal is, itself, a fake out. With approximately one-half hour left in the film, this would seem a strange location for the big reveal, wouldn’t it?

Fake-ally opponent/fake opponent-ally/attack by ally/battle: The elders chide Edward for unilaterally deciding to send Ivy to the towns, saying that by doing so, he’s risking everything they hoped to achieve by creating the village in the first place. August breaks ranks and supports Edwards. This is the “battle,” in Truby’s words, between characters representing different takes on the central theme of the story. The elders admit, in not so many words, that Lucius’ life is an acceptable price for their utopian dream. Edward counters by arguing that if they allow Lucius to die without trying to help him, they have essentially become the violence and evil they escaped by leaving the towns. By throwing his weight behind Edward, August, a respected elder who is no stranger to loss (hey, that 7-year-old burial in Scene 1 really was relevant, after all!), he ensures Edward’s position wins out.

Protagonist/opponent/mystery/battle: Alone in the woods, Ivy falls into then climbs out of a sinkhole, which location she remembers by the feel of a nearby branch. Pressing ahead in terror of the “real” monsters her father rumored, Ivy fends of attack from a monster by leading it to fall into the same sinkhole. In my opinion, this is the best stretch of the movie and a truly fine piece of acting by Bryce Dallas Howard, who makes Ivy (remember, she’s blind) ooze both terror and courage from every pore. Her fight with the monster is reminiscent of Nancy Thompson battling Freddy Kruger in A Nightmare on Elm Street. This scene is also Shyamalan toying with the audience. As I said before, our twist (the monsters are fake) clocked in a bit early, but Edward foreshadowed a twist to the twist (maybe the monsters aren’t fake) in a throwaway line. Face to face with a red cloaked figure, Ivy, like both the audience and Donald Rumsfeld circa 2004, is wondering whether we do, in fact, know what we don’t know.

Opponent/fourth major reveal: Noah’s parents, both elders, are horrified to find that Noah is gone, having taken their monster suit. In the sinkhole, the “monster” that attacked Ivy is revealed to be Noah, having fallen to his death. I have lots of thoughts on this, and I believe it to be the weakest aspect of the story. As I said before, watching this in retrospect, the insane-character-as-murderer trope is tired and borderline offensive in 2020, and was not much better in 2004. Moreover, given Noah’s mental limitations, it’s hard to paint him a true “opponent.” His motives for following and attacking Ivy, if he even has any, are muddled. Is he trying to harm or kill her out of anger for rejecting him for Lucius? Is he trying to stop her from reaching the towns, so Lucius will die? Is he, as Coleridge observed in Shakespeare’s Iago from Othello, merely the “motive-hunting of motiveless malignity”? The movie never answers this question, merely hiding behind the fact that Noah is mentally disabled, so his motives are unknowable. But, as I also said before, he does occupy a crucial thematic niche; namely, as an agent of chaos, he represents that which will forever plague idealists like the elders and should (but won’t) convince them that control is an illusion.

Ghost/mystery/fifth major reveal: Having found the road that leads to the towns, Ivy bumps up against what appears to be a modern chain link fence. Back in the village, Edward and his wife open a safe, which is revealed to contain 20^th century newspaper clippings and a photo of the “elders” together outside a counseling center. The story is set in the present-day, not 1897. The “elders” were all people who came to know each other through grief counseling. Edward, using his knowledge of American history as a professor at UPenn, and his father’s money, led the others in creating the village as a utopian experiment. I truly didn’t see this coming when I saw this in the theater. Roger Ebert, who hated this movie, claims he saw it a mile away. I will leave it up to you to decide whether this, the big reveal, is a satisfactory payoff.

Mystery/exposition: Ivy is picked up by Kevin, a ranger, driving a vehicle that says “Walker Wildlife Preserve.” The woods, with the village tucked away deep inside, is actually a private reservation, who no one is allowed to enter. At the guard shack where Kevin goes to retrieve medicine for Ivy, Kevin’s boss (M. Night Shyamalan in cameo) reminds him that mum is the word about the preserve; that if anyone found out that an estate is paying them to secure the borders so tightly, and that they pay off the government to keep airplanes from flying overhead, the press might start poking around. The purpose of this scene is to provide some closure for the loose ends that may have occurred to you when you learned that the movie is set in modern times; for example, why are there no airplanes flying overhead? Admittedly, it’s not the strongest. It’s tough to swallow the premise that, just outside Philadelphia in 2004, there is a clump of woods large enough to cloak a secret, anachronistic village, and that no one would have somehow stumbled upon it. You can use your imagination all day long. It’s a plot contrivance, and a cheesy one at that. But, same as with The Sixth Sense, where Bruce Willis is revealed to be a ghost, the point is not whether you believe the big reveal is possible, but whether it’s internally consistent within the story’s universe. Here, I will submit that this ending is at least conceivable on the rules we’ve been playing by all along—unlike, for example, the Star Wars sequel trilogy, where lightspeed skipping is perfectly safe and force-ghosts can move physical objects. What’s more, as I will discuss below, its sheer absurdity serves to underscore the political theme, that manipulation by fear can be so powerful as to overcome substantial real-world obstacles.

New equilibrium: Ivy returns with medicines, saving Lucius’ life. The elders agree that Noah’s death will enable them to prolong their utopian dream, as they will blame it on the monsters. I label this a “new equilibrium” ironically, as nothing has really changed. Noah’s death, needless and avoidable, has been retroactively ennobled, to be used as further fearmongering to keep the ignorant villagers in line. Ivy and Lucius are looked to as the future leaders of the community, if only because of their ignorance.

Further Thoughts on Political Themes

Politics is a ubiquitous “third rail” in American society in 2020, as it was in 2004: no matter what you believe, you’re bound to offend someone. However, in times of crisis, the arts rise to the occasion, asking the questions that push us forward; see, e.g., Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe and The Jungle by Upton Sinclair. Political discourse through literature, if done well, can be powerful. If done poorly, while still thought-provoking, it tends to alienate the reader/viewer. I’ll refrain from giving examples, but if you are leaving the theater feeling guilty and lectured-to, chances are you’ve just watched something from the latter category. The bad ones feel like punishment. The good ones linger on in your mind like an eternal, unanswerable question.

The Village, though imperfect, does an admirable job of exploring the idea of manipulation through fear; specifically, how it occurs between an in-group and an “other.” If you recall, The Village hit theaters around the same time as Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 911 (2004), a savage critique-cum-exposé of how President George W. Bush supposedly leveraged the fear felt after the September 11, 2001 attacks into the Iraq War, the sole purpose of which was to put money in his oil baron buddies’ pockets. This was no coincidence. Though wildly different, The Village and Fahrenheit 911 are concerned with the same theme. Both movies ask their respective audiences the same fundamental question: are we really in danger from an “other” (monsters or terrorists), or are we being manipulated by our leaders with an imaginary or exaggerated bogeyman for ulterior motives?

Where I think The Village does this better than Moore’s film is in showing, rather than telling, us the consequences of a community built on lies and manipulation. Other than the elders, the villagers are essentially innocent hostages, living bizarre, anachronistic lives to satisfy the elders’, and specifically Edward’s, vanity project. They are kept in the dark about the very nature of reality and cowed through fear into someone else’s story. But what happens when things go sideways? What happens when a wild-card character like Noah does something the elders hadn’t foreseen? And even if that problem can be resolved and an innocent life saved, should this be a wakeup call on the unsustainability of the project or an invitation to double-down? The good stories ask more questions than they answer. The bad stories ask a question, set up and then promptly knock down straw men, and then hector you for ever questioning them in the first place. The Village posits a world built around deception, ignorance, and fearmongering, then lets it run wild, with predictably unpredictable results. It is an ode to the inevitability of chaos. It is a cautionary tale about being overly cautious.

If you are interested in an in-depth assessment of a project you are working on, or to retain my services as a developmental editor, please feel free to comment below or e-mail me at toddgmonahan@live.com. 

And finally, as I cannot wish you happy writing, since writing so often is decidedly not happy, I wish for you that that tiny light at the end of the tunnel gets a little bit brighter every day.

[1] The most recent Star Wars film, Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker (2019) attempts to do this, trying to retrofit the entire sweep of the series to convince you that a) Emperor Palpatine was alive the whole time, and b) Rey is descended from Palpatine, with absolutely no setup. Predictably, it fails.