Sequel talk often sparks because this unconventionally contemplative comic-book film is M. Night Shyamalan's only idea worth continuing -a patient, downbeat and thrillingly unpredictable drama that still stands today as Shyamalan's visionary masterpiece.
With all these superlatives, how could Shyamalan so badly misjudge vital elements to the story? The melodramatic elements take away substantially from much of what could otherwise be hailed as a masterpiece.
The dialogue has more pauses than a High School production of Samuel Beckett. And while that works up to a point, you find yourself wanting to grab the characters and shake them out of their introspective stupors.
A depressing, definitive case of a film that experiences in its third and final act what one could either call, charitably, a total loss of its convictions, or, less charitably, a total brain aneurysm.