Darabont seems so professionally taken with the work of Stephen King that it's a little sad he doesn't really have the chops to make an actual horror film; i've got patience enough with his genial mediocrity, but The Mist bites off a little more than he can chew. there's a good bit to admire in his adaptation, from the portrait of ugly religious fervor (one wonders how a pared-down Mist might work on the stage) to it's heavy, audacious ending -- Darabont's heart was in the right place, and moreso his balls. but the movie that surrounds both his and King's better ideas is clumsy at best and corny at worst, plagued by hammy performances, inert staginess, and an apparent loss as to how to cut the film together without the odd Fade To Black, the sum result of which is a film far too confident in its potential to captivate.still, just to rub sand in The Strangers' eyes, it must be said that this is a mainstream film with a bold bleakness that still manages to entertain and provoke thought. whether or not it earns the ending is perfectly arguable, but either way those last moments are saturated with desperate love rather than crass hatred, and there's simply no contest between the two, whatever their purpose.
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