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Streaming Shuffle

Host

In a confusing time, this movie knew what it was doing.

A movie like Rob Savage’s Host—a horror movie shot on Zoom at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic—could’ve easily been pure gimmick. But while it does relish its gimmick, poking into nearly every feature of 2020 Zoom in the process, it’s not content to rely on it. It’s also too good, even in its narrowly focused way, to survive only as a time capsule.

What a time capsule it is, though. Pop culture hasn’t entirely known what to do with the pandemic, and while it’s fair enough for any given work to exclude or skip over it, it does mean that there’s a hole in our entertainment where a long, weird, and still resonating part of our lives should be. Host gets it right, both in terms of social observation—the couple who decided to share their lockdown far too early in their relationship—and, to double back for a minute, in its precise use of its gimmick. This was made at a time when the average person was still getting the hang of Zoom, and that makes its sheer Zoominess feel like a valuable part of its era-specific setting. Someone joins on both her laptop and her phone, creating a hellish echoing distortion. Another character is enchanted with her looping video background. Filters. Time limits on unpaid accounts.

In 2020, I watched all this with a sense of weirdly gleeful recognition. “Representation” often gets talked about in terms of depicting certain demographic kinds of lived human experience, but I feel some of the same frisson seeing anything personally recognizable but rare up on screen or on the page. Fictional versions of online life often don’t ping me that way, but this—like its cousin Unfriended—gets a lot of the details right.

But what’s most important, and why this movie is still worth watching, is that it uses all those details not only to get a chuckle and a nod but to raise active goosebumps. Host isn’t interested in the usual pesky details of cinema—like most computer screen/found footage films, it essentially needs to look like shit in order to be convincing—or even art—let’s just say the characterization is, uh, sparing. On a more blissful note, it also doesn’t care about lore, the bane of horror movies everywhere. You can describe the supernatural problem here—someone lies about a ghost during a séance, and that lie creates a “mask” a demon can use to enter their lives—in a sentence. The demon doesn’t have a name. It doesn’t have a spooky book. It doesn’t need any of that; it has under 60 minutes to lay waste, so it doesn’t have time to fuck around.

What it cares about is what the movie cares about, and that’s horror. A horror movie concentrating solely on scaring you as often and as badly as it can has become a rare beast, and while I’m fine with that not being the only kind of horror movie, it’s lovely to see it hasn’t gone extinct. Once things get going, Host attempts to throw scares at you almost the way a ZAZ movie throws jokes. Don’t like that jump scare? Just a second, we’ll give you some rising tension. How about some violence? How about when you can’t see the violence? The shutter-flashes between those last two in one key sequence is maybe my favorite part of the movie, making something intensely alarming out of both the messy cruelty and the trite concealment.

I’m under no illusion that this will work for everyone. You have to have a certain affection for the movie’s willingness to throw everything at the wall—music box! Polaroid camera! Zoom time limit!—to see what sticks. But I got scared enough, and bought in thoroughly enough, that even on rewatch, the cute little credits format briefly made me panic at the thought that the demon was going to Zoom call the film’s stunt coordinator. Take this as an indictment of my mental well-being, if you like. But for an hour-long film made under these conditions to evoke that kind of thought-stopping fear is not nothing. It may be shallow, but no one ever said a reflecting pool didn’t have its own beauty.

Host is streaming on Netflix.