Even the fog is flimsy in The Fog
The Fog Tom Welling, Maggie Grace, Selma Blair and Rade Šerbedžija. Directed by Rupert Wainwright. Runs 99 minutes. At numerous theatres. 14A
Hey, I can understand that a boatload of refugee lepers would be somewhat ticked at being robbed, torched and sunk by a posse of greedy and ignorant island rubes. That is so politically incorrect, even for 1871. But does that mean the ghosts of the lepers have to stew for ages, and then wreak bloody revenge on the islanders’ innocent descendants? Don’t they teach forgiveness in the afterlife? Somebody actually asks that question in The Fog, which slunk into theatres Friday like a bad smell.
“That matters little now,” a ghost replies, and it’s as good an answer as you’re going to get. The proverb about revenge being a dish best eaten cold has been interpreted by these spooks as meaning stone cold, not to mention mouldy. A more pertinent query might have been why it was deemed necessary to remake John Carpenter’s 1980 movie of the same name, which got by on atmosphere and a cast that included such fascinations as scream queen Jamie Lee Curtis and her Psycho mom Janet Leigh, plus the sultry Adrienne Barbeau.
This one has no celebrity power to speak of, unless you’re jazzed by rote line readings from tiny TV talents ( Smallville’s Tom Welling and Lost’s Maggie Grace) or movie stars killing time (a bored Selma Blair, taking over Barbeau’s role as the island radio deejay). The plot? It’s not much bigger than last time, apart from closer familial ties and a slightly less scruffy group of vengeful spirits, seeking belated payback for having their leper boat sunk. This crowd looks like it wandered off the set of a Masterpiece Theatre remake of A Christmas Carol. And why do they have to be so boring and obvious? When you’ve thrown one island descendent through a glass door, you’ve thrown them all. You don’t have to hurl everybody to prove you’re bummed. On second thought, when you’re dealing with islanders this stupid, perhaps you do. With the exception of the drunken priest ( Adrian Hough) and the deranged sea salt ( Rade Šerbedžija), there’s not a man jack ( or woman jack) on the island who knows enough to avoid hastening into a darkened room full of fish hooks or a menacing fog full of spiteful spectres. And speaking of that fog, why does it look so fake? The producers ( John Carpenter included, sadly) and director ( hackfor- Rupert Wainwright) are proud of having made their mist the old- fashioned way, using dozens of smoke machines ( the original had just two) and only a minimum of CGI. Yet somehow it still looks like it was done on an iMac.