‘The Substance’ Movie Review: Demi Moore And Margaret Qualley Go For Broke In Bonkers Body-Horror Satire
Photo from Mubi
From Jeremy Kibler
A woman’s fear of aging, being scrutinized and made into a commodity, and fading out of the relevant spotlight gets pushed to such extremes in writer-director Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance, a bold, daring, and horrifically gross showbiz satire. Trailblazing since her thrilling, vibrantly bloody 2017 rape-revenge thriller Revenge, Fargeat somehow, some way, out-Cronenbergs and out-Gordons David Cronenberg and Stuart Gordon. While it certainly will not befit the tastes of the most casual moviegoers, The Substance metamorphoses into its own bonkers, in-your-face beast with the de-aging invention of Robert Zemeckis’ Death Becomes Her and the visceral knockout of Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream.
In a captivating, career-defining performance (and that’s not hyperbole), Demi Moore plays Elisabeth Sparkle, a celebrity fitness guru who hosts a Jane Fonda-like aerobics TV show. The network, led by Harvey (a crassly over-the-top Dennis Quaid, who’s impressively disgusting even when he’s not slurping down a bowl of shrimp), wants to phase Elisabeth out and replace her with a woman who’s younger, more beautiful, and even more vivacious. After a car accident that actually leaves her without a scratch, Elisabeth is slipped a number by a gorgeous male nurse to get her in contact with “the substance.” She’s hesitant and skeptical at first, but this underground drug regimen promises a better version of herself — just one single injection and a copy of Elisabeth will be released. What’s the catch? Both bifurcated versions can only be out in the world for seven days each. Well, what Elisabeth and the copy named Sue (Margaret Qualley) both forget is that they are still one, and while “the substance” is free, the toll it takes is truly life-changing.
Set in a caricatured-but-probably-not-far-off version of an L.A. industry where women are chewed up and spit out, The Substance is a grotesque, savage, darkly funny satire as much as it’s a wildly ghastly, barrier-crossing horror show. A yolk emerging out of a sunny-side-up egg, followed by the overhead evolution of a Hollywood Walk of Fame star, is the first of many frames that efficiently tell a story. The production design, from the long hallway and Overlook Hotel-ish carpet design of the TV studio to Elisabeth’s sterile-white bathroom, is exquisite. The repetition of certain dialogue is also masterfully aligned with the increasing horrors that befall Elisabeth and Sue as one. Two male casting directors asking Sue for her “name, age, and measurements” returns when selfish decisions are made, and the lecherous studio head’s condescending “pretty girls should always smile!” command takes an even creepier turn.
Leaving her comfort zone and completely going for it, Demi Moore gives the kind of astonishingly fearless performance that stuffy Academy voters will choose to overlook because of how hard the film goes (most recently not unlike Toni Collette in Hereditary or Mia Goth in Pearl, just to name a few). One can only assume that the role of Elisabeth Sparkle is more than a little meta, as if Moore is evaluating her own career, and if so, there’s a cathartic battle cry for women everywhere that certainly gets heard. In a nerve-fraying, emotionally true scene where Elisabeth gets ready for a would-be date and keeps changing her appearance until self-hate takes over, a mere look in the bathroom mirror at her weathered, bleary-eyed reflection might be Moore’s rawest and most heartbreaking work in the film. At the same time, Margaret Qualley is very game and very much Moore’s equal in the emotionally heightened and crazily physical places the artificially perfect Sue must go. After all, they are one.
Commitment of performance, precise and thematically rich shot compositions, a riveting sense of pacing, a pulsing score by Raffertie (as well as ironic music cues like Etta James’ “At Last”), and an all-too-effectively squishy sound design all work in concert to make this a gloriously nightmarish rush of body horror and sadness. If you thought Fargeat spared no blood in Revenge, nothing can prepare you for the unshakable too-muchness of the final thirty minutes. One’s jaw hasn’t remained dropped in this Grand Guignol sort of way since, maybe, Brian Yuzna’s Society, where sights cannot be unseen. Every fleshy transformation is brought to tactile life by exceptionally gnarly make-up and practical effects, and any viewer who’s squeamish over needles, fluids, and anything body-related should probably steer clear.
Not every great or impactful film can be measured by subtlety or sophisticated taste. Although Fargeat’s thematic points about body dysmorphia and societal standards are rarely subliminal and always emboldened, the film is audacious in what it says and how it says it with beautifully gonzo style. The Substance is a journey, a ride, a sensory experience, so activate it and melt your face off.
Rating: 5/5
The Substance hits theaters on September 20th, 2024.
