I have a few spare minutes this bone-shatteringly cold morning of 2°F so why not spend it here with the people whom, and the blogs which, warm the cockles of my heart. I saw Stephen King’s The Mist this past Thanksgiving weekend, a film I honestly intended to skip if it weren’t for the review/recommendation of Star Tribune/Vita.mn/The Rake film contributor Colin Colvert; someone who’s opinion in the world of film is trending harmonious as of late.
I’ll stop just short of saying The Mist completely works, it does skew a tad obtuse (refreshingly so?), but I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend it in an instant for a host of reasons: a tremendous sense of space in light of the setting’s size versus the number of actors, studious recovery when the subject matter drifts towards digression, and a great sense of pace are but a few from the macro column. It's very worth a theater viewing if for no other reason than how a massive screen and pummeling sound-scape facilitate the film's simultaneously claustrophobic & remote anxiety alongside impressive visuals.
What lingers, for me, and without being blasphemous, as it were, Mist enters the ominous halls occupied by films like Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s Kairo and the upcoming blockbuster-in-waiting I Am Legend, but unlike Kairo and more in line with 1998’s Deep Impact, (although nowhere near as effective imo), ‘Mist’ speeds past a genuine opportunity to drop a steaming heap of salvation. Darabont errs by squandering an opportunity to give auds a truly revelatory experience; why the need to protect? Who knows. Supposedly King whole-heartedly approved of the ending.
Having read only four of his novels (one novella, and not the story in question; all relatively forgettable) I can somewhat attest to his affinity for punting. The last thing is, I can’t shake the feeling that it ebbs & flows in ways a certain H. P. Lovecraft short story does; I re-read it to satisfy my curiosity.
No comments:
Post a Comment