Stephen King’s stories are always awkward beasts to make into films. From gratuitous blood-spattered gore-fests to cheap, made-for-TV miniseries, films adapted from King’s books and novellas do little to pay due credit to their creator.
The only person who appears to understand the King universe seems to be Frank Darabont. With two successful King films under his belt (Shawshank Redemption and The Green Mile), Darabont has proven himself a master of the finer and less obvious elements of Stephen King’s stories. And, risking being branded a one-trick pony, he returns to do what he does best.
In The Mist, adapted from a short story, Darabont and King bring us another tale of human nature and personal suffering. However, where Shawshank and The Green Mile were based firmly in drama, The Mist is firmly rooted in the realm of horror. Trapped in a supermarket as an ominous (you guessed it) mist rolls into town, a band of survivors attempt to survive the creatures that dwell within the fog.
Departing from obvious connections with John Carpenter’s The Fog (and its deplorable remake), the film exists as an enjoyable, tense and affecting two hours of cinema. Its cast are infallible, with Thomas Jane leading the slowly dwindling survivalists, and Marcia Gay Harden as the screeching Mrs Carmody, pious head of the frightened, increasingly hysterical masses.
Darabont knows how to wield a film crew. Lighting and claustrophobia combine to create real fear in the unknown, a noble thing considering the amount of boring slash and splatter forcefed to audiences lately. His cast also, are masterful. While nothing about their lives is dwelled upon, none are a stereotype, and each are interesting, even without desperate Lost-style rummaging through their lives.
Accordingly, the monsters themselves are an afterthought. The required amount of blood is thrown around, and the CGI is acceptably decent, though no-one could accuse the various insectile beings of appearing too realistic. This is a meditation on human nature, and the basic brutality of human instinct, more frightening that any vaginal-looking tentacle.
This may not be Darabont’s best film, admittedly both his recent King outings have been superior, but considering this is his first foray into horror, he does well. Nothing in particular is at fault, and certainly the film could never be called amateur. Maybe it’s just the King connection becoming stale, but until someone else is able to adequately adapt one of King’s short stories, Frank Darabont’s films can’t be found wanting.
