eep in the woods of Pennsylvania, circa 1897, a community lives in harmony with each other, their land and the monsters lurking in the woods. The town elders, among them Edward Walker (Hurt) and his wife Tabitha (Jayne Atkinson), Alice Hunt (Weaver) and Vivian Percy (Cherry Jones), discourage anyone from venturing beyond the village borders. As Edward tells the children, the village has a longstanding truce with "those we don't speak of," and breaking that truce will result in dire consequences.
Despite the warnings, it's only human to tempt fate. Alice's son, the levelheaded but curious Lucius (Phoenix), in fact, asks permission to explore the outside world. Meanwhile, Lucius begins a relationship with Edward's daughter, Ivy (Howard), a smart, brave and wise young woman who also happens to be blind. That, however, is hardly a handicap; she sees more than most people anyway, including their "color," their aura, and she can traverse the village with ease, knowing intimately every square inch of the place.
The burgeoning relationship is tested, though, by matters of the heart and loyalty. Ivy's sister Kitty (Judy Greer) loves Lucius, and Noah (Brody), a mentally imbalanced friend, adores Ivy. Meanwhile, the creatures in the woods are growing increasingly agitated, and an encounter—which could forever affect the village—feels inevitable.
These Village people sing
Shyamalan is nothing if not ambitious. With his fourth major film—following The Sixth Sense, Unbreakable and Signs—the filmmaker takes audiences to a different place and time while spinning another of his dark, eerie tales. Rather than rely on the marquee power of Bruce Willis, Samuel L. Jackson or Mel Gibson, he counts on an ensemble cast led by Howard, the daughter of Ron Howard, who makes her big-screen debut here (after popping up as an extra in several of her father's films). And, yes, there's a big twist, a few of them, actually. Some of the gambles pay off better than others.
Setting the story so far in the past enables Shyamalan to focus his camera on the period clothes, lodging, farming equipment and so on, but he indulges too often in the material's travelogue nature. It's the same with the dialogue; the words sound stilted spilling out of several of the actors' mouths. Far more problematic is the pacing. The Village moves along like a drunken snail, and though a certain ominousness—to its credit—hangs over the whole production from the opening credits to the last scene, genuine scares are too few and far between.
As for the twists, it wouldn't be fair to ruin them. They may surprise some people, but the audience likely has a better chance of figuring them out here than they did in either The Sixth Sense or Unbreakable. Truth be told, though, The Village, good as it is, might have been a far better movie if Shyamalan revealed the key twist halfway through and then delved into the ramifications of it for the rest of the film's running time.
Fortunately for Shyamalan, the cast's superb acting overrides nearly every flaw. Hurt often comes across as aloof and pedantic in his performances, but here he's supposed to be a bit holier than thou, and he's far from aloof. He states the village's case appropriately and passionately to the village's elders, young adults and children, and his scenes with Howard and Weaver—Edward and Alice clearly have feelings for each other that can't be acted upon—are touching. Phoenix is superb, sturdy, honorable and believable, while Brody is at once playful, warm and somehow menacing. But this is Howard's show, and she's terrific, delivering a penetrating, gutsy performance that's as emotional as it is physical. It's too often hyperbole, but a star is born.
