Jeff, Who Lives at Home, which is written by Jay and Mark Duplass, is rather obsessed with signs — and by that, I actually mean M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs. Both present their protagonists as witnesses to coincidences that, if paid their due attention, may ultimately prove to be an order to a seemingly listless universe. But this indie drama is smarter than the big-budget sci-fier it references, and indicates this self-awareness by placing these theories in the mouth of Jeff (Jason Segal), a 30-year-old stoner who does indeed live at home with his widowed mother.

Jeff’s journey begins when he gets a series of aligning signs that begin with a misplaced call in search of “Kevin.”  This ultimately inspires him to leave the basement to buy wood glue at the birthday behest of his mother, Sharon (Susan Sarandon). Not long into his journey, he runs into his brother Pat (Ed Helms). Pat is a case against desire and determination, with a dead-end job and a loveless marriage with a wife (Judy Greer) who slightly winces when he attempts to make her smile. After dumping the breakfast he made for her in response to his leasing of a Porsche (“It’s a great deal!”), she is spotted by Jeff and Pat rolling around town with another man.

Sharon calls both Jeff and Pat for updates on the quest for wood glue, but is distracted herself when she receives first a mysterious paper airplane, and then instant messages, from an anonymous coworker who claims to have the hots for her.  Is this finally the day fate will hit them all over the head with their destiny? Of course it is. Jeff, Who Lives at Home is indeed a tale of surrealist whimsy that wraps up in that bow we recognize to be saccharine yet sad yet satisfying.

The Duplass brothers are funny and talented guys, whose “improvisational filmmaking” has made them minor indie darlings after their excellent work on both The Puffy Chair (2005) and Cyrus (2011). Jeff, Who Lives at Home continues their track record of excellence, as has to it a sort of obvious completeness that marks both narrative growth and complacence. That their preferred camera technique is to arbitrarily zoom and tussle the camera without the grace that comes with meaning points to the continued development of their style. Yes, these guys are still learning, but that doesn’t make their work any less fantastic.

Jeff, Who Lives at Home carries an unrelenting sadness that exists in spite of its comedy. This would not be a funny film in the hands of lesser performers. Segal, for example, uses his entire physicality to immerse himself into his character the way a stoner sinks into the couch after a good bong rip. I was reminded of those friends while watching the film — yes, they’ve raved about the very same interconnectivity of the universe through the very same lens of the very same Shyamalan flick — who may make the mistake of reading Jeff, Who Lives at Home as a championing of their lifestyle. It isn’t, really, but perhaps there is always hope they’ll see it as a sign.