You don't expect subtlety from a horror movie like The Mist—but when the script attempts to say Important Things about the nature of humanity, mocks religious fanaticism, and takes a stab at dramatic irony in its final moments, it's akin to clubbing a baby seal. The movie is the club, and you're the seal. And that shit hurts.
Perhaps things wouldn't have seemed so overwrought if the film were actually a large-scale musical—think Les Mist. I'd pay to see that.
Look, the film is a moderately entertaining adaptation of a Stephen King novella, but the only thing I want shoved in my face at a movie like this is monsters, not messages. That's why I do things like get up five minutes into the film to tell a theater employee that their projectionist is only running sound through the front speakers and none of the other ones. They do this often enough at my local cinema that I get suspicious that they purposefully shut down those side speakers in order to save electricity and money, those bastards. I paid good cash—I want my eardrums to explode.
Incidentally, an African-American actor is not the first to die (damning horror movie cliches!), but a whole group of them do get slaughtered en masse one-third into the movie (but thankfully offscreen). I'm not sure what that message is, but it happened. I'm just sayin'.