The Mist
I've seen some previews of the new movie, The Mist, which looks really good and horribly depressing. As I have been in poor spirits lately, I decided to forego the movie for now (catch it on DVD later or something) and read the original Stephen King story instead, published as a novella in the collection Skeleton Crew. It being Stephen King, of course the library had it. So the night before last, I settled in for what I thought would be a pleasant read.
Yeah, right.
Word to the wise: Never, ever, EVER stay up until 2 am reading a scary story by Stephen King. Particularly one of his short stories written in the heyday of his talents. Oh, man, I barely slept, and when I did, I dreamed of fogbanks, giant insect-thingies and the small-town grocery store that I used to go to back when I lived in Lanesville, Indiana.
Oh, the story was good. It was can't-put-the-book-down good. Hence my staying up way past my bedtime, curled up in the comfy chair with my knees raised up so I could perch the big hardback volume of the book on them. But dayum, it was freakin' scary!
Some of the story is rather dated. It was written in the early 1980's and some of the plot points (like the protagonist's four-wheel drive car) are not issues nowadays like they would be then. From spoilers on the internet, some things were updated and evidently the end of the story was changed as well, making the movie in the words of one reviewer "the most depressing thing I have ever seen". Not that the original ending was all upbeat or anything, but still...
There are some excellent movies that are brilliant, like Schindler's List or Se7en, which I thought were wonderful examples of the filmmakers' craft and which, having seen once, I refuse to watch again because they're so damn depressing. I have a feeling that The Mist is going to fall into that catagory. Maybe my old bud from the Elitist Bastards, Mightygodking, will do one of his famous reviews for us?
Anyway, last night, my bedtime reading consisted of a half-chapter from Donald Keene's Seeds in the Heart, which is like being with a good friend who is showing you all the cool things about early Japanese literature. And is not scary at all. I am happy to report there were no giant insects in my dreams last night, although there might have been a tanka or two from a guy swathed in layers of silk who looked remarkably like Sanada Hiroyuki.
