The Host
Two stars (out of four)
Rated: PG
It’s bad enough that space aliens want to invade our planet and our bodies. Worse yet is that they also assume our foul habits, such as our irrational love of gooey sci-fi/fantasy melodramas, which lately has been confined mainly to the teen female of the species.
The Host is an example of this unholy occupation, although we can’t blame the ray gun brigade for its existence.
It’s written and directed by New Zealand-born Andrew Niccol, who 15 years ago was heralded as the bright young spark behind such thoughtful sci-fi thrillers as his own film Gattaca and Peter Weir’s The Truman Show.
The spark has dimmed of late (recall the 2011 misfire In Time) and risks being snuffed out entirely by The Host, in which Niccol is invaded by a presence named Stephenie Meyer. She’s the endless pen and fattened bank account of the Twilight series, in which we learned over four books and five movies that teen vampires and werewolves can be every bit as lovesick and moody as their human counterparts.
The Host, which Niccol adapts from Meyer’s 600-plus-page novel, professes to be more of an adult story. But it’s essentially the same mushy teen deal, with interstellar carpetbaggers instead of crypt dwellers: one girl in love with two guys, although the girl is really two in one.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. A prologue sets the post-apocalyptic scenario: Earth is finally a perfect place of peace, love, understanding and free ice cream (I put that in). But there’s a catch: “It’s no longer our world.”
The planet has been overrun by astral-tripping squatters called Souls, who resemble shiny disco versions of the creepy-crawling body Vincent Price battled in The Tingler. They slide into a human host and take control of both body and mind, leaving no physical evidence apart from sapphire eyes. They also like to dress like the Man from Glad and tool about in flashy silver Lotus Evora sports cars. At least they have good taste in wheels.
The Souls have just about finished conquering Earth, save for a few scruffy holdouts who have eluded the aptly named Seeker (Diane Kruger), a fascist in a supermodel’s body.
One such holdout is Melanie Stryder (Saoirse Ronan), whom we meet as she’s bravely making a last stand to keep the Souls at bay. She has reasons for her stubbornness, including a hunk named Jared (Max Irons, Jeremy’s son), a fellow fugitive human whom Melanie has fallen for.
Faster than you can say OMG!, Melanie is occupied by a Soul named Wanderer. But her love for Jared is so strong, she refuses to allow the alien to fully control her mind or body: “You take the body and the feelings come with it. That’s the deal,” Melanie tells Wanderer, using the think-speak that will soon submerge the film in syrup.
Things get even goofier when Melanie/Wanderer vamoose, with Seeker in pursuit, to a New Mexico desert mountain hideaway of human rebels, lead by prairie sage Jeb (William Hurt), who promptly nicknames Wanderer “Wanda.” There the two-girls-gone-wild meet another hunk, this one named Ian (Jake Abel).
Hint: check out the movie poster and think Bella/Edward/Jacob with more cosmic complications.
Up to this point, The Host has shown promise as a sci-fi thriller, with an empathetic protagonist in Ronan and a hissable villain in Kruger. As with most of his films, Niccol is very good at the setup, and at conjuring worlds with lighting, design and concept that flatter both mind and eye. He’s managed to pare much of the fat out of Meyer’s novel.
He’s also good with visual puns, as when we see an advertising-free store simply called STORE — why would perfect people need to be pitched?
But Niccol also usually has trouble with the follow-through, especially when his screenplay is finally completely taken over by Meyer’s toxic treacle.
Sci-fi hits the skids as bad melodrama rules, and we get such risible dialogue as, “It’s not really me you like, it’s this body” and “I’m still of two minds.” And how about this groaner: “Kiss me like you want to get slapped.”
Sad to think that space invaders can be so easily suckered by our stupid human tricks. No wonder the rest of the universe doesn’t trust us.
Peter Howell is a syndicated Toronto Star movie critic.