The Fog
(2005)
review by Head Cheeze

I watch a lot of bad movies. Just ask my wife what a typical weekend with me is like, and she's sure to tell you that, by Sunday night, I've probably watched over a half-dozen films, with maybe two of them being any good. Still, I rarely if ever stop a movie once it's started, no matter how bad it is. So, with that in mind, imagine my wife's surprise (and mild delight) when I angrily suggested we leave the theater after only an hour of Rupert Wainwright's remake of The Fog.

I can count the number of times I've walked out of a theater before a film has ended on one hand, and three of those times were due to the fact that I had snuck in and was kicked out by the usher. Yes, it takes a special kind of bad to make me walk out on a film, and The Fog is that kind of bad.

For the shocking amount of people apparently unaware of this fact, The Fog is based on John Carpenter's spooky 1980 ghost story of the same name. That film, while admittedly flawed, is one of my favourite horror flicks, and still gives me goosebumps to this day. When it was announced that this film was being remade (not only with Carpenter's blessing, but with the late Debra Hill serving as producer), I wasn't thrilled, but, after the quality remakes of Dawn of the Dead and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, I bit my tongue and hoped for the best.

The film opens with what appears to be some men rowing away from the flaming wreck of a boat a hundred years earlier. Something falls into the water; we hear a scream, and then surface to see Antonio Island in the distance, as the credits roll to the tune of some hot new faux-punk music blaring from Stevie Wayne's (Blair) lighthouse radio station. Yes, this Stevie Wayne plays alternative rock, neu-metal, and hip-hop rather than the big band stylings of her 80's counterpart. This new, edgy Stevie tells us that it's eve before the one hundredth anniversary of Antonio Island, and the locals are prepping for one humdinger of a celebration to honour the town's founders (one of whom, Stevie tells us, is her great-grandfather. As a matter of fact, all three main characters are conveniently related to the founding fathers).

Cue up another toothless pop punk track and cut to Nick Castle (Welling) and his first mate Spooner (DeRay Davis). After a mishap on Nick's boat, the Seagrass, Nick tells his friend he's going off to get some materials for repairs. Spooner, aware that Nick has been fooling around with the sultry local D.J., teases Nick about his relationship with Stevie, and reminds him that his girlfriend, Elizabeth (Grace), wouldn't approve. Nick reminds Spooner that Elizabeth has been gone for six months, and leaves to pick up the parts for his boat, coming upon a hitchhiker along the way. But wait a minute! Surprise, surprise, the hitchhiker is Elizabeth ! She's back in town because she's been having spooky nightmares about drowning and burning boats (hey, what better place to go than an island when you think your life may be threatened by water!?). Nick takes Elizabeth home for a prolonged-yet-teen-friendly sex scene in the shower (but only after shrugging off the fact that Nick's truck windows were mysteriously blown out by an unseen force).

Meanwhile, Spooner, who, it should be noted, is the "stereotypical black guy in an otherwise lily-white horror movie", takes the Seagrass out for a late night cruise with Nick's cousin and two bimbos. The ship is attacked by invisible fog ghost things and the screen fades to black with Spooner's screams. Don't worry, though; he's not dead. He somehow managed to escape from the deck of the boat and hides inside of a small freezer. You see, Spooner can't die, because who else will crack jokes when the ghost pirates come?

It was around that time that I felt the rage build up within me. I left soon after that.

It's really amazing, as this is such a turn-key concept that I can't even fathom how Wainwright botched it up, yet this is a prime example of a horror film that doesn't get a single thing right. The leads are atrocious, with Welling proving to be little more than a slab of smiling meat, while Grace seems capable of all of two expressions; bitchy and bitchier. When your best performance comes from Selma Blair, a woman with all of the charisma of a autistic possum, you know you're in trouble. Perhaps these actors would have been better served performing from a script that didn't read like Dawson's Creek meets Scooby Doo, but we'll never know.

I gave The Fog over an hour to give me one reason to stay for another forty measly minutes, but this film couldn't even manage that. Instead I got a listless teen melodrama filled with cardboard characters so lifeless, so utterly and completely vapid, that not only did I not care what became of them, I didn't feel like wasting another minute of my life waiting to find out. I'm sure many of you will think "hey, how can this guy tank a film he didn't bother seeing through to the ending?", but I look at this film like a party filled with people I don't like. I don't need to stay to the end to know it's going to be a bad party, so I cut my losses, leave, and find something better to do. In this case, I went grocery shopping, and it was infinitely more entertaining.