Directed by John Carpenter. Written by John Carpenter and Debrah Hill
The first mode of storytelling was the spoken word and on its day, by the right practitioner, it might be the best kind we have: house lights down, your inner eye open, and your imagination projecting images fantastical and visceral.
That’s what’s going on as John Carpenter’s The Fog opens, showing us a group of young boys huddled around a fire as the hour approaches midnight. Opposite them sits an old sea captain, and in honor of the centennial of the small Californian coastal town they live in, he tells the story of how a ship sank right off the very coast they now sit due to an unnatural fogbank’s confounding presence. The boys are in the palm of the sea captain’s hand, the steady lapping of waves adding to the immersion. They’re going to remember this story for the rest of their lives.
Six men died that fateful day 100 years ago, but it led to the founding of their community. At that same moment, a fog rolls in again, and all manner of strange phenomena manifest: lights flicker, car alarms go off, items rattle off their shelves in convenience stores, furniture moves. Eerie, but just disconcerting. Then something else begins stirring in the shroud of fog, marking the start of a very long night for the inhabitants of this small town that may be hiding a dark past…
We’ve come a long way since the spoken word had a monopoly on storytelling, but The Fog retains the same core virtues despite adding sound and vision to the mix. It has great timing, its scene-setting is evocative, to the point, and doesn’t overstay its welcome. Its flow is immaculate, the mark of a director (and editor) who knows the climb to the summit is as important as the exhilarating leap – or push – off the cliff’s edge.
In short, Carpenter proves himself a master storyteller with this old sea tale that stands out against its contemporaries that rooted themselves in more believable evil, be it Carpenter’s own Halloween or Friday the 13th, released the same year as The Fog. Carpenter even shows a cool reticence when it comes to his monster, despite the special effects he employs, a lesson Michael Mann hadn’t learned by 1984 when he released his own supernatural horror movie The Keep.
Because of its subject matter, it’s a quaint callback to a less modern time dominated by technology and sure enough, Carpenter and co-writer Debrah Hill’s story is vested in old-time ways of connecting.
Adrienne Barbeau stars as local radio DJ Stevie Wayne, her sultry voice beaming from every radio in this sleepy town. She’s a welcome guest, connecting all and advising those who might need it on the comings and goings. It’s her voice that fills the cabin of Nick Castle’s truck (Tom Atkins) as he picks up hitchhiker Elizabeth (Jamie Lee Curtis), a type of kindness long gone.
Altogether it makes for an intimate atmosphere in The Fog, and its eponymous evil all the more potent, sidling into houses under doors and cracks in windows, leaving no shelter impenetrable. Hidden in this folkloric horror story is also a keen metaphor for America itself, a prosperous community that built its riches on dark deeds.
Not nautical-themed: Carpenter’s score, whose synths make for ice picks tapping on windows. As timeless as the rest of his movie feels, this is what dates it most. It’s a pleasure, but also its most conspicuous element when you listen to it now, 45 years on. The Fog must also contend with two of its table legs missing, as Atkins and Curtis have little chemistry together, and their characters are merely expository vessels. The Fog makes up for this with its minor characters, all perfect small town folks with all their fuzzy idiosyncrasies that define them.
A good story is great, a good story well-told even greater. The Fog is Carpenter proving that very fact, a monster horror movie that hums all the way through the night, bright, vivid, and beguiling.
Mikkel Frederiksen 