Before leaving the house for the 7:20 showing of The Happening, the man and I agreed that this was M. Night Shyamalan’s very last chance to separate us from our hard earned money. To date, I’ve coughed up for theatrical showings of The Sixth Sense, Unbreakable, Signs and Lady in the Water (The Village was a Netflix). And every single time since the first time, I’ve been disappointed. Not to mention, I actually sat through two hours of Mel Gibson in that lameo crop circle flick (pre-DUI bust, post-Braveheart), which was an inexcusably bad call to begin with.

So why do I keep forking over my greenbacks? I’m no better than a lab rat, tapping at that lever, trying to trigger my pleasure receptor, over and over. Except a rat would probably have learned by now. If it’s pleasure I’m looking for, my ten bucks is better spent on bing cherries. Especially in-season. A mere half-pound of cherries has been scientifically proven to emote better than Zooey Deschanel.

And yet, we showered on a Sunday night and drove 25 miles to the theater. Granted, the first-run options in our town are always limited, and currently include the please-kill-me-first Kung Fu Panda. Granted, too, we’d just painted the upstairs loft and the choice of “go to a movie” or “inhale toxic fumes for another few hours” wasn’t a tough one. Knowing what I know now, though, I’d rather inhale the blackberry eggshell. Hell, I’d rather spoon it onto my steak.

No, M. Night Shyamalan hasn’t learned to pen witty dialogue. Nor has he figured out how to pace a feature film, or to maintain dramatic tension, or to defy expectations. The only thing it seems he does well is cast non-white actors in minor roles. He fills his frames with people who are actually representative of the American public. For that, I applaud him.

For everything else, the man would be well-served by perusing William Goldman, now and again. Even auteurs owe their audience a modicum of craft. It’s the backbone of entertainment.