The Gist of The Mist

I’m intrigued by the way cinema affects our perception of reality, especially how certain images or feelings from films stick with us for days, months, years, even a lifetime. Jaws (which just turned 35, by the way), is one of those movies that’s often cited as having that power, making viewers terrified to go in the water permanently after watching it – even in fresh water lakes, which is completely irrational.

Of course, it’s not just horror films that can cause such strong associations; Vegas reminds me of Swingers, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Hangover – humourous films that amplify that carnivalesque, party too-hearty, anything goes reputation. I bring up fear though, not just because it’s such a strong emotion, but also because it sparks my imagination more than other feelings.

For example, this weekend, myself and five others got the hell out of Smashronto to a rental cottage in the woods. The destination was near Huntsville, site of the G8 Summit, and the entire lake was unusually quiet – hardly a boat out on a sunny Saturday afternoon. We were the only people renting a cottage at the property; all felt peaceful and serene. Well, at least until late that night.

We were sitting lakeside, around a campfire. It was nearly a full moon, which illuminated the still water, the opposite shoreline and an island. Then the mist rolled in shortly after midnight. It was actually really beautiful, but those of us that had watched the movie The Mist, Frank Darabont’s 2007 adaptation of my favourite Stephen King short story, immediately remarked how creepy it was and how it was devouring the land across from us, and that it was most likely chock full of hideous monstrosities from another dimension that were waiting to devour us with tentacles, pinchers and fangs. Y’know, it was 26 above with a chance of Lovecraft…

The Mist is so effective at creating an atmosphere of dread emanating from that rather ordinary barometric phenomenon, that since seeing it, every time it’s foggy out I think about the film and get just a little creeped because of it, in a way that I never did before seeing the movie. In my head I replay those scenes in my head where the mist rolls in off the lake, and then later spills through the town, into the parking lot of the supermarket where our heroes are forced to hole up.

As the mist crept closer to us, I could almost hear the unearthly moaning of the terrors within. That’s the power of cinema when it preys on you oh-so perfectly.

Of course, it may just be that I watch way too many horror films. After the mist arrived, we went down to the dock and shone a flashlight across the water; I illuminated a raft for swimmers that’s was a little way out in the water, and the first thing I thought of was the raft in “The Raft” segment of Creepshow 2 (the movie anthology comprised of adaptations of, again, Stephen King short stories). Then we looked up at the cottage on the hill, which was surrounded by mist and appeared particularly frightening with the porch lights casting strange shadows amongst the trees. First thought: the cabin in The Evil Dead.

Is this an unhealthy default – to think of these movies? To imagine hideous terrors? Should I lay off them for a while?

Of course, not. When I got back home last night, I watched The Mist again. My imagination also lives in that white shroud with all the monsters, and the last thing I want to do is put a leash on  it. If cinema can create such strong connotations, it's telling you about yourself, and that's a good thing.

-Dave Alexander