“We cannot run from heartache. Heartache is a part of life. We know that now.” – Brendon Gleeson as August Nicholson in “The Village”
M. Night Shyamalan is a master at crafting empathetic stories about people stuck in isolation of their own volition as they grapple with faith in the face of death. His breakout blockbuster, The Sixth Sense (1999), deals with a child psychologist who dwells in a world where he’s taunted by the death of a former patient. In Signs (2002), a father and former priest isolates himself from his church and faith following the death of his wife. The themes of isolation and mortality are present in Old (2021), Knock at the Cabin (2023) and, to a delightfully cheeky extent, The Visit (2015), but probably no other entry in Shyamalan’s repertoire so poignantly handles these subject matters like his 2004 period thriller, The Village.
This film about a small group of villagers living in self-segregation from “the towns” while nameless, murderous creatures supposedly roam the surrounding woods, is a tragic tale of humanity’s inherent resistance to deal with the reality of loss and suffering. The remote village with its mythical monsters was, after all, created by a group of grief counsellors in response to an ever-growing violent society that killed many of their loved ones while living in the cities. These founders simply wanted a place where they could protect their community. The problem, however, is that in trying to shield the villagers from death at the hands of humankind, children and adults end up dead anyway because they do not have the necessary medicine and healthcare that the outside world can provide. The Village was famously hated by legendary critic Roger Ebert, who called the reveal of the truth behind the creatures “witless,” but what Shyamalan so clearly portrays here is that utopia is an illusion, and that illusion itself is necessary for folks to buy into such a constrained ideology.
Fables, which are short tales often passed down as folklore, are recognized by their moral lessons. They deal with questions of right and wrong, and they’re symbolic of human behaviour. In The Village, the elders and their attempt to guard their friends and families against the destructive nature of humanity might seem good and noble to them, but the way in which they go about it is, in truth, oppressive, and should horrify us. When Lucius Hunt (Joaquin Phoenix) asks permission from the elders to visit the towns and get medical supplies to prevent further sickness and death, they deny him this, explaining that the towns are wicked and that travelling through the woods would only upset the vicious, red-cloaked creatures referred to as “Those We Don’t Speak Of.” This is the myth the founders created to not only pacify the villagers, but also weaponize the fear they themselves created. In trying to keep their people safe from the terrors of society, the elders isolate and, essentially, terrorise them into submission.
Fables are often characterized by anthropomorphization in which animals are given human qualities and assigned specific traits. Here, these anthropomorphized animals are the humanoid-creatures lurking in the woods, their traits being the harbingers of terror and death. That these monsters are, in fact, the founders disguised in costumes made of cloak and straw says enough about who the true tormentors are. Of course, Noah Percy (Adrien Brody), the young and mentally deficient villager with no proper healthcare to support him whatsoever, ends up being the one donning the costume, turning the founders’ dark threats into reality. Many have criticized Shyamalan’s choice of using someone like Noah as the antagonist in this narrative but, just like in fables, Noah’s character is symbolic. Noah’s simple mind reflects the simple logic of this village—his tragic and naive belief that wolves should chase young women through the woods makes him as much of a victim as the rest of them.
There’s always a lesson to be found in a fable, and it’s often punctuated by a maxim. In the case of The Village, that maxim probably comes from the elder Edward Walker (William Hurt), the father of young Ivy (Bryce Dallas Howard)—who defies the elders’ wishes and decides to venture through the woods to keep her beau, Lucius, from dying. In pleading his daughter’s case to his fellow elders, Walker argues that Ivy is moved by love, and that “the world moves for love; it kneels before it in awe.” Indeed, everything that happens in this film is a product of some kind of love. The founders created the village because they love their people and want to keep them safe. Ivy’s sister, Kitty Walker (Judy Greer) who originally fancied Lucius, doesn’t begrudge her sister’s romance because she loves her. Noah acts out in the face of this romance because, in his own way, he loves Ivy. And Ivy challenges the dogma she’s grown up believing her entire life by travelling through the dark and eerie woods, alone, to save Lucius, out of love. As Lucius himself so succinctly says, “There are different types of love.”
This central theme renders The Village Shyamalan’s most romantic, deeply tragic and sincerest film to date. When the village is attacked by a creature, Ivy (who is blind) stands in the doorway, waiting for Lucius to come as her sister begs her to close the door and hide in safety. Ivy reaches out her hand, into the dark, fearful but brave and certain in her conviction that Lucius will come. As we see the creature running up to grab her hand, another hand clasps her own and Lucius pulls her into the house. They hide in a small bunker underneath the floorboards along with the others, noises and sounds heard from above as the creature bangs and stomps to scare and fright. But they are safe, and together, and the camera moves to show a frame of hands holding tight. Lucius, who years ago stopped taking Ivy’s hand for fear of revealing his love, is holding her hand now, not letting go, daring to love in a dark and uncertain world.