Spilt, for better or for worse, is classic M Night Shyamalan. It’s his most purely entertaining movie in years.

Unlike last year’s 10 Cloverfield Lane, Split is not given to a discussion of elaborate strategy: its cage is more existential.

‘Split’ immerses you into the chilling world of its characters as they descend into their individual versions of hell.

Split, however, is a bonafide roar back to form which showcases why Shyamalan became a superstar in the first place.

Shyamalan never loses grip over the narrative even when the surprise element slackens and slows down and finally whittles down to a zero. Split is remarkably assured in following the rules of a solid cat-and-mouse thriller. The attempts at bringing in a psychological heft by trying to align Casey’s current captivity with her childhood predicament is, at best, tenuous.

Watch Split for James McAvoy – he scares the bejesus out of you. The subtle manifestations of changes on his face as he slips in and out of alters is terrifying. They make your skin crawl and hands feel clammy. You sit through the movie feeling strangely cold despite a warm jumper and a thick cardigan on you.