I’d never been to a movie by myself before, so when I discovered that the Québec premiere of The Substance at Cinéma Du Parc sold out before my friends had bought their tickets, I listened to their encouragement about the “peaceful” nature of solo movie-watching and decided to go alone. Midway through the movie, as I witnessed no less than five walk-outs and heard the man behind me whisper, “I think I’m going to pass out,” I realized this might not be the cozy viewing experience that I’d had in mind.
Director Coralie Fargeat’s sophomore film is disgusting to the point of absurdity. After Hollywood studio executives fire Elisabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore) from her long-term aerobics show on her 50th birthday, she is forced to reckon with her middle age. This is when she learns about “The Substance:” A black-market drug that promises to unlock a younger, better version of its user. After following the concerningly vague instructions that accompany the drug, Elisabeth spawns Sue (Margaret Qualley), her younger, shinier counterpart, who takes her place every other week through a gruesome spinal tap. At first, both women seem satisfied with this arrangement, but as Sue bends the rules of their symbiotic relationship, Elisabeth begins to undergo a monstrous transformation that rivals David Cronenberg’s The Fly or Julia Ducournau’s Titane.
Fargeat’s visceral gore is elevated almost to the level of camp. Extreme close-ups snap in on bloody stitches, sagging skin, or two mutated eyes battling for dominance inside one socket, while ASMR-like sound effects punctuate every moment. In one scene, as a man masticates a pile of shrimp, I could only imagine that the Foley artist was slapping a plate of jello to produce such revolting sounds.
This penchant towards excess extends beyond the film’s gore. When Sue steps into a dazzling reality, Fargeat’s visuals magnify her sexy, glamorous lifestyle so that it, too, becomes hard to look at. Through oversaturated colour, Sue’s bubblegum-pink lip gloss appears sickly sweet, and zoomed-in shots chop up her spandex-clad curves into pieces. As Sue’s youthful qualities are made uncanny and strange, both women’s lives are imagined as a double-edged sword of dissatisfaction and self-hatred.
The Substance’s final 30 minutes are made to be seen in a packed theatre. While the film’s horror is pushed to shocking extremes through slimy prosthetics and practical effects, Moore simultaneously injects each scene with sardonic humour. Culminating in a spectacular, blood-soaked, reverse Carrie sequence, the entire audience around me was laughing in shock.
Although its sci-fi-ish premise reads like a Black Mirror episode, The Substance is not the nuanced satire on anti-aging that it presents itself to be. The film opens with several clear—yet somewhat unimaginative—examples of sexism in Hollywood: Casting calls for women are marked with strict age limits, while panels of casting agents ruthlessly scrutinize their bodies. In one scene, a patronizing producer spouts phrases like “pretty girls should always smile!” as he ignores the tears in Sue’s eyes, while in another, he refers to the ticking biological clock of women over 25.
Instead of building on these examples, however, Fargeat leaves them behind in favour of focusing on the film’s body horror. Despite continuously identifying Hollywood’s obsession with youth and its impossible beauty standards, Fargeat ultimately positions Elisabeth as the character that we are cringing and laughing at by the film’s conclusion, witnessing her transformation into a monster as she suffers the consequences of her own self-hatred. In this sense, The Substance can’t seem to decide whether the subject of its critique is the patriarchal beauty industry, or the women who buy into it.
The Substance’s commentary may be somewhat simplistic, but Fargeat uses it as a provocative jumping-off point for the rest of the film, which transforms—like its protagonist—into something nauseating and deranged, yet entirely singular.
The Substance is now playing in theatres.
