Selected Works by / Muses of Joshua Maser. © 2012 M A S E R b e a m s.

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  THOUGHTS IN THE FOG

  by Joshua Maser
  
  

  “Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?” - Edgar Allen Poe
  
  

  As Autumn ushered in changing skies and descending leaves, it also brought me a lingering cold.  Being under the weather found me content to lay low, appreciating the ease of streaming movies, with the warmth of my pets by my side.

  My imagination and sense of nostalgia became stirred recently while revisiting John Carpenter’s supernatural thriller, The Fog (1980).  I remember first seeing the movie on television as a kid and thinking it was as much cool as it was scary.  As the child character, Andy puts it when the power goes out, “I think it’s kinda neat!”  What I didn’t expect is for the film to resonate with me years later, enough to write about, trying to figure out its strange allure.

  From its opening campfire scene of old Mr. Machen (John Houseman) telling ghost stories to a group of mesmerized children, I become absorbed.  Houseman’s steely-eyed seriousness and gravelly accent help establish the tone of this tantalizing tale.  Soon enough, it’s just as if I’m one of those kids, transfixed by legends of vengeful, shipwrecked zombies returning to a small seaside town the night of its 100 year anniversary.

  

  What first strikes me technically is how well served The Fog is by its wider format cinematography.  Some of my favorite moments come simply from taking in landscape shots of windswept coastline or moonlit ocean.  The images paint an ominous portrait of emptiness in this place, which becomes just as much a character as any person in the film.

  The perfect accomplice to his visuals, Carpenter’s own foreboding music scores never fail to entrance me into the dark world he creates.  With hypnotic precision, tones of piano, synths and ticking chimes signal that society’s usual protections no longer apply, and some along the way will surely not be saved.

  

  While many viewers may not look beyond judging it on its scares and visual effects, I gravitate more towards The Fog’s aesthetic qualities.  “From on top of the world” in the solitude of her lighthouse radio station, Stevie Wayne (Adrienne Barbeau) embodies the image of someone committed to a solitary lifestyle.  Observing the long walk down endless stairs it takes her to get to the lighthouse is actually my favorite sequence in the whole film.  Gusts of ocean air toss her hair around as sounds from a cassette tape trail off in the wind, the moment is full of description and given essential time to breathe.  Stevie’s seclusion is self-evident and by choice, serving as a beacon to others physically and metaphorically.  “Nothin’ but water, Stevie,” she says to herself, gazing out at the night sea.  “But it sure beats Chicago.”

  What’s less obvious is the independent nature prevalent in practically all the other characters as well.  From contemplative Father Malone (Hal Holbrook), to self-reliant local, Nick (Tom Atkins), to hitchhiking drifter, Elizabeth (Jamie Lee Curtis), to weatherman, Dan (“I’m just callin’ to see if you’re lonely”), to Stevie’s child, Andy, roaming the beach by himself.  It’s not by coincidence so many profiles of lonesomeness permeate one story.  The Fog seems to have a childlike curiosity in exploring this underlying theme of isolation.

  

  Very rarely am I inclined to want to watch a film more than once until it’s had some time to recede into my memory.  Since rediscovering The Fog however, frequenting its fictional seaside town of Antonio Bay, California comes easily.  Enigmatic like a Boards of Canada record, it’s spacious and desolate, yet equally comforting.  Names of fictional boats like the Sea Grass, and Elizabeth Dane seem to carry some type of awakened significance, sailing into my cove of trivial knowledge.  I continue to notice new details, appreciating the film’s strengths as well as its imperfections.  Continuity issues with the weather, or time of night, somehow just add to The Fog’s overall charm and mystique.

  I’m not giving anything away by saying that in the end, our heroine, Stevie Wayne tries to save others while being, ironically, all alone and trapped herself.  From the confinement of her lighthouse, she has nothing to fight the unknown, nothing to penetrate the darkness and fog with other than her distressed voice, calling out over invisible radio waves.  Poetically, it reminds of a similar feeling found in paintings by Caspar David Friedrich or Edward Hopper.

  

  Perhaps The Fog still captivating my sensibilities really shouldn’t surprise me since some of my favorite films include Blade Runner (1982) and Donnie Darko (2001).  They share a heavy emphasis on atmosphere, mood and music.  Their characters all seem to have in common a certain disaffection, a feeling of detachment.  They exude cynicism, but also a sense of wonder.  Their environments are dark and surreal, but easy to connect with emotionally and through imagination.

  Late the other night I found myself searching online for photos of the Point Reyes Lighthouse used in the film as the fictional KAB radio station.  Looking over the scenic images reminded me that it is a very real and peaceful place.  But the kid in me still wants to believe in the possibility of ghouls stirring “out in the waters around Spivey Point.”
  
  
  
  
  

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