All I had was the vague recollection of flappy, bat creatures terrorizing people in a grocery store from the trailer I had seen years earlier. I was sick with a lingering cold and knew next to nothing about the movie. In many ways, it was the best of situations. But there I was the other night, remote control in hand, the red ribbon of Netflix booting up on my TV, ready to be lost in a horror pick. Were it not for the personal recommendation from Pastor Brito, the movie likely would have remained forever lost in the endless tunnels of Netflix. It flirts with brilliancy-plays footsie with it-like a pair of middle-schoolers who cannot truly reach the heights of love but mimic its form, perhaps even feeling like they’re swimming in love’s deeper currents.Īnd yet! The ending is so shockingly poignant-so shockingly unexpected (at least for me)-that the last five minutes of the film very nearly absolved all the overwrought and bewilderingly unrealistic moments. Rarely has a film confounded my movie sensibilities so powerfully as Frank Darabont’s “The Mist.” Somehow and in some way it is simultaneously terrible yet entertaining, ridiculous yet strangely compelling, pedestrian yet brilliant.
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