It’s not news that Hollywood isn’t kind to women of a certain age. It’s much easier for ten men to remain in the spotlight through middle age and into their golden years than for any one woman to do the same. And in our new age of buccal fat removal, facial fillers, and chin reconstruction, no one of any gender can last a long time in showbiz without getting a little work done. A nip here, a tuck there — just a little refinement to smooth the brow and lose those crow’s feet. What’s an entirely immobile upper lip when you can make those laugh lines disappear? No one will notice, will they? But suddenly a few years have passed and those small tweaks have compounded and now you look like an entirely different person.
It’s heartbreaking to see, but ours is a shallow society, and in the absence of a literal fountain of youth, we want our celebrities to be as flawless as possible, even if it means teetering on the edge of the uncanny valley. Hollywood has been at the epicenter of this sort of thing since its birth, pumping young starlets with amphetamines to keep them skinny for the ogling eyes of the men in charge, and injecting silicone here and there in order to get the right silhouette cuz you wanna be a star, don’t ya??? It’s no mystery why, even here in 2024, the richest and most privileged women on the planet are still operating at a social deficit — still developing an internalized self-hatred that can only be eliminated via the validation of outside, often patriarchal forces.
It’s this hardcoded oppression that lies squarely in the center of Coralie Fargeat’s satirical sights in The Substance, one of the most insane, gruesome, and brutally effective body horror pictures ever made. After redefining the rape-revenge subgenre, she’s now excoriating Hollywood, celebrity culture, and the callousness of the fame machine, and doing so with the same methodology as she did with Revenge: depicting it through an expressly feminine lens. It’s an angry, abrasive, and deeply upsetting piece of cinematic craft, and if the Academy has any balls at all, it will receive its due rewards.
The Substance exists somewhere between Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde, The Elephant Man, Titane, and that recurring nightmare where you have to give a presentation at work and suddenly you realize you’re not wearing any clothes. Demi Moore plays Elisabeth Sparkle, a former superstar, complete with a spot on the Walk of Fame, who is currently keeping her celebrity status alive via a televised aerobics show. By any reasonable standards she looks absolutely phenomenal for a woman in her sixties, but the standards of Hollywood aren’t so forgiving, and it isn’t long before she’s out of a job. After a car accident which leaves her miraculously unharmed, a handsome young nurse slips her a flash drive with details about The Substance, a mail-order treatment that, if used correctly, could make Elisabeth young again.
After some deliberation she orders the product, and it arrives like so many modern meal kits (it actually reminded me of my quarterly toothbrush refills). Simple instructions in large block print, broken down into single-serve pieces that even an idiot could use without error. It is here where Fargeat’s brilliance as a purveyor of images begins to crystallize, and also where the rules of this colorful adjacent universe become clear. This is, for lack of better terminology, a fantasy film. It takes place in a world that’s real enough, but it’s not quite the same as our own. The chemical mechanisms of the neon green substance are irrelevant, just as are the nuts and bolts of Hollywood’s larger self. It doesn’t matter that aerobics shows aren’t really a thing anymore, but here they exist as a short form way to exhibit the rampant sexualization of celebrity women. It doesn’t matter that the show’s producer, the appropriately named Harvey (played with filthy delight by Dennis Quaid), is cartoonish to look at, just that what he represents in the real world is evil to a degree that can often seem cartoonish, if not for its startling cruelty and violence. Do we really need to know how the substance works? No, but its garish functionality is a perfect way to illustrate the sacrifices of flesh that an economy of misogyny and sex forces women to make.
Fargeat uses many tricks to create the omnipresent feeling of oppression, but the two which stick out in my mind are the extreme closeups that depict a variety of filthy human behaviors (the way Quaid’s shrimp dinner is consumed and shot is reminiscent of the “gross-ups” made popular in Ren & Stimpy) and the deeply textured sound design — every splatter of…fluid, every strained bodily movement, every instance of a needle puncturing skin is cranked up to a stomach-churning level of sensory overload. It’s no mistake that the men in the room tend to stomp loudly when they walk. Sure, Elisabeth is a superstar, but it’s the producers, the directors, and the shareholders — all men — who take up the most space.
The Substance itself promises to make “a better you,” and that’s literally what happens. Elisabeth doesn’t become younger. No, her torso splits open and gives birth to a younger version of herself. And this younger version of herself (played with ferocity by an incredible Margaret Qualley) has a mind of her own. She goes by Sue, and she’s immediately accepted by Tinseltown as the new feminine flavor of the month.
But there are rules, and the most important one is that users of The Substance MUST split their time evenly between each form, and the two can never be simultaneously active. Elisabeth and Sue are one, and they must take turns existing. Seven days on, seven days off. No more, no less. Failure to do so will result in…consequences.
The Substance goes harder and further than anyone could reasonably expect, and it does so without losing focus, and without losing narrative energy. Even with all its frenzied escalations, the story remains cohesive and compelling. At nearly 2.5 hours, not a second is wasted. The goopy, profoundly upsetting body horror elements dare you to look away, but doing so is an impossibility. Fargeat proves herself a cruel hypnotist in this way, stealing the viewer into an insane world and feeding them a meal of rage-filled provocations that are too delicious and cutting to deny.
But for all the provocations, what makes this psychotic odyssey so indelible is the character work at its center. Elisabeth might be vain, but never does her vanity seem to stem from avarice. She’s not injecting The Substance out of a desire to acquire or even wield power. Instead it comes from a place of low self-worth. At a time where “eat the rich” has become a bumper sticker, it would figure nigh impossible to make a relatable character out of someone who, by almost anyone’s standards, has everything. Yet we all know Elisabeth’s pain on some level. We all know what it’s like to cling to anything we can in order to prevent inevitable loss. We all know what it’s like to feel inferior — to forget that the only standards we ever need to meet are our own. Moore’s performance is miraculous. She’s certainly no stranger to the commodification of her own body, and I would imagine she brings this experiential knowledge to her role.
The same can be said for Qualley. She’s young, hot, and on the rise, as is her Sue. Sure, being young and beautiful can be a ticket to stardom, but it’s a double-edged sword. A pretty face can pay the bills, but how many times has a legitimately talented woman been ignored beyond her surface-level assets? Hedy Lamarr is one of the most important inventors of all time, but we never heard about her contributions to science until recently, long after her death. To see Qualley and Moore play the two sides of this coin is a treat. Sue is finding the success that Elisabeth lost, while Elisabeth begins to recognize that such superficial victories are just that, and it’s her experience and wisdom that give her true value as a human and an artist.
I will stop here before I say too much, as if a movie so jam-packed with ideas and filmmaking craft could even be spoiled. The Substance is an angry, provocative, and uniquely disturbing descent into body-horror madness that simply demands to be seen. You will not believe where it goes, and you will not understand how something so pissed off and fucked up made its way to the big screen. It’s one of the most upsetting movies I’ve ever seen, and also one of the funniest. It’s a wildly uncomfortable moviegoing experience, and also one of the most enjoyable. Coralie Fargeat is a major talent, and we should be thanking the cinematic goddesses that she has chosen to work inside the world of genre film. I’d say she’s the heir apparent of John Carpenter, but I’d hate to categorize her as anything but a new, completely original voice. May she continue making incredible films until long after the shitty system would prefer to chew her up and spit her out.
The Substance is a total game-changer. I am, pun most certainly intended, beside myself.
Directed by Coralie Fargeat
Written by Coralie Fargeat
Starring Demi Moore, Margaret Qualley, Dennis Quaid, Gore Abrams
Rated R, 140 minutes
