Life, they say, finds a way. And you’d expect by now that scientists would understand that no matter how much they try to limit the growth of a genetically engineered organism--be that dinosaur or plant--life will...well, you know.

Little Joe is an incredibly stylish movie about the most politest of invasions. Alice (Emily Beecham) is a single mother and a plant breeder, who’s created the latest in designer flowers. She names it Little Joe after her son Joe (Kit Connor), which seems a bit on-the-nose but also appropriate since, as she tells her coworkers, “you’ll love this plant like your own child.” Alice has genetically modified Little Joe to release a scent that triggers an oxytocin release in those who smell it.

In other words, it makes you happy. This antidepressant plant, it turns out, has been made sterile so it can’t reproduce which, as a coworker says, is not natural: “The plant will follow its purpose, too.” Alice continues to play fast and loose with the rules as she not only used virus vectors to get it to work, but she also brings a plant home to her kid. “No one has to know,” she tells her son, Joe, but like...even outside of horror films that’s just not a good idea.

Joe wants his mom to start dating again and he brings up Chris (Ben Whishaw), a fellow plant breeder working with her on Little Joe. She’s taken aback and doesn’t see it. “All you see is your flowers,” Joe responds. And it’s true. Alice seems to have an unhealthy obsession over her adorable flower with its bright red nettles. An obsession that Joe starts to exhibit, too, as his personality starts to slowly change. All of a sudden, he wants to go live with his father and while he starts to talk in a calm, emotionless monotone, he says he’s very happy.

Soon, Alice begins to wonder if the people around her are just in love with their plant or if there’s something more insidious going on.

Little Joe is a very, very slow, slow burn. Directed by Jessica Hausner from a script co-written by Géraldine Bajard, the movie feels more ominous than frightening. What the film does best, though, is present a pastel-colored world by way of Kubrick’s The Shining. The camera rarely stands still and slinks around in ways that felt reminiscent of Kubrick’s filming style. It looks around corners, slowly zooms inward, wraps around characters and generally swings.

On top of the visual flourishes, the soundtrack--if you can call it that--grates in ways that could make dogs howl. It’s full of high pitched squeals and monotones operating in dissonance. When the flowers are on screen, the sound design employs a very high-pitched ringing noise that I’m guessing is supposed to be unsettling but made me want to watch it on mute.

A couple standout moments are expertly crafted. The standout sequence has to be a moment when Chris doubles back into the greenhouse to find an errant dog that entered. As he moves through the greenhouse, the flowers slowly unfurl and stretch towards him. He bends down and by the time he stands up, the flowers are all at attention, petals unfurled like a Dilophosaurus ready to spit. And spit it does, as it sprays pollen in his face.

I mentioned the slow pace and it’s true. This film takes its sweet time getting to the point and while I enjoy a good slow burn, this tested my patience (the “soundtrack” didn’t help). But that’s not the biggest problem. The themes the movie examines are uncomfortable in the way it portrays those who need medication like Prozac. A fellow breeder named Bella (Kerry Fox) has started taking medication to help with depression and people comment about how she’s “just not the person she used to be” and “that’s why she had restricted access.”

The stigma of depression and anxiety are obviously on the menu, but Little Joe seems to suggest that that feeling of happiness that’s helped through medication isn’t genuine. It’s a somewhat dangerous tightrope the script walks and while it’s ultimately a bit more ambiguous in its demonization of medication, it left an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

Ultimately, the slow invasion felt more style over substance. At one point, a character says, “who can prove the genuineness of feelings? Moreover, who cares?”

Who cares, indeed.