The Sixth Sense was not M. Night Shyamalan’s debut feature film, but it might as well have been for all the immediate attention and status it earned him from moviegoing audiences. His first two films – Praying with Anger and Wide Awake – each dealt, in their way, with characters who are saturated with doubt that undertake personal quests for faith and meaning. On its surface, The Sixth Sense appears to abandon those interests in favor of a tightly constructed, cleverly conceived story about ghosts.
But hidden beneath the haunting, surprisingly emotional trappings of a straight-forward thriller is a compelling narrative about perception and communication. “I see dead people.” Cole says, pulling his blanket closer to his chin as he confesses his terrifying secret. Haley Joel Osment was nominated for an Oscar for his portrayal of the tortured young boy, while Bruce Willis offers one of his most vulnerable and restrained performances as Malcolm, the guilt-soaked child therapist. Toni Collette plays Cole’s mother, Lynn, whose challenges and frustrations are matched only by her ferocious affection for her troubled little boy. The three of them exhibit failures of perception, which can only be brought into clarity by difficult communication.
Lynn cannot see what is wrong with her boy, why he struggles to make meaningful friendships, and why he occasionally seems to be lying about unusual behavior. Cole cannot see past his affliction, where a nightmarish parade of ghastly spirits pervasively surrounds him while the rest of his world is oblivious to their presence. And Malcolm cannot see himself for who he has become in the aftermath of his failures. Each of them feels varying degrees of helplessness, trudging through their daily routines as they struggle to find and speak the truth.
It is Cole who goes first. When he finally tells Malcolm what haunts him – that he constantly sees dead people “walking around like regular people [who] don’t know they’re dead” – he seems almost certain that Malcolm will abandon him. He asks simply for Malcolm to wait with him until he falls asleep. And Malcolm doesn’t abandon him. In fact, he encourages Cole into even further communication, suggesting that Cole listen to these spirits because perhaps they need help. Malcolm suggests this even as he recognizes he has lost the ability to communicate with his estranged wife.
Shyamalan consistently laces his film with a potent observation: that speaking the truth is both painful and liberating. Because the deeper we bury the truth, the more stuck we become in isolation and terror. To bury the truth is to make ghosts of ourselves, like the tormented specters surrounding Cole. There are few things that cloud our perception more than lying to ourselves and those around us. When Cole finally tells his mother his secrets, it releases them both from the ever-tightening shackles of doubt, trauma, and fear. They pass first through disbelief and tears before eventually finding each other.
Faith and truth are inseparable. “You will know the truth and the truth will set you free,” says the scripture in the gospel according to John. We may swim in an ocean of doubt and confusion or stand on conviction and fight for principle. But if we are unwilling to speak the truth to ourselves and with one another, we become little more than “dead people, walking around like regular people.” We won’t even know we’re dead.
When Malcolm finally speaks the truth to his wife, the film finally tells its truth to us. If you’ve seen the film, you know. Whether you love it or not, it’s undeniably one of the most iconic narrative revelations in cinema history. If you haven’t seen the film, I’ve probably already said too much. — Reed Lackey.
Arts & Faith Lists:
2025 Top 100 — #85