If Paddy Chayefsky and Newton Minow had ever bonded over too many cocktails—secretly spiked by Neil Postman—the result might have been The Signal, a grungy warning to anyone who would rather watch than engage.
Television, however, isn’t the movie’s only maleficent medium. The signal in question—a crackling hiss of static and snow—beams with equally terrifying consequences from radios and cell phones, infecting its listeners with nonspecific, pathological rage. Exuberantly merging sci-fi, horror, and black comedy, three writer-directors each take responsibility for one third of the narrative; and if the outcome is more zealous than lucid that’s not to say the experiment lacks merit. There’s nothing like the combination of low budget and high anxiety for liberating the id.
Click here to read Jeannette Catsoulis's review of The Signal.