Aren’t you glad it’s not that same photo of the guy with the shock-blond hair and the green sweater pointing off-screen?
In the waning days of the Toronto International Film Festival, it was rare for an afternoon to pass without somebody—a colleague, a volunteer, a stranger in line for popcorn—inquiring about the film, programmed in this neck of the woods as a “Midnight Madness” selection. Generally, the Midnight Madness films in Toronto are a greasy-mixed bag of winking splatter-fests and serious-minded sado-porn: films that are fun to read about and taxing to watch. On one hand, it was nice to have The Host around to elevate the overall level of the programme, but it was also annoying to see so lucid and novel a piece of work ghettoized as something best watched after dark in the company of gore-hounds.
Read the rest of Adam Nayman’s article on The Host…and then go see it.