THE SUBSTANCE

The Substance – review by Eric Lindbom

Three Snakes out of Five

Writer/director Coralie Fargeat turns the volume way past 11 with THE SUBSTANCE, a feminist howl amplified by an enticing body horror premise. It owes much of its buzz to the poetic justice of casting Demi Moore in a role she sadly understands — an actress initially idolized — and then harshly judged — for her looks.

An inventive time lapse sequence snap shots the downward career trajectory of Demi’s once hot star Elisabeth Sparkle. We see her Hollywood Walk of Fame plaque being meticulously sized and plopped into place before later fading, cracking, being ignored and then literally trashed by uninterested pedestrians and street freaks.

Elisabeth of today is reduced to headlining an aerobic workout television show heavy on the cheese cake. At dreaded middle age, she’s fired by its leering producer — Dennis Quaid makes a showy entrance gobbling down shrimp with his mouth full but his manic act later wears thin.

To prevent being further aged out by misogynist moguls, she submits to a secretive experimental procedure promising her a younger, better self through injections of no doubt FDA unapproved concoctions. Presto, a nubile alter ego (Margaret Qualley) comes to life in a painful birth, ripping Elisabeth’s back in half before stitching it back together. Two versions of Elisabeth, her regular self and her replacement (who dubs herself Sue), take turns living for exactly one week with the others’ body a naked husk waiting its shift. Dire results are warned if the timing rules aren’t strictly followed. Like all Faustian bargains, troubles mount as hard partying Sue plays loose with her curfew and Elisabeth pays the price with accelerated aging.

Moore fully commits to the grueling role writhing nude on her posh bathroom floor through a procession of painful gyrations. This is the sort of role that earns an actor award nominations if only for physical endurance. Moore is on a comeback swing, after an equally flinty, convincing turn in the mini-series FEUD: TRUMAN CAPOTE VS. THE SWANS.

Despite her rigor, Moore is at a disadvantage since Fargeat doesn’t clue us into Elisabeth’s obsession with chasing the fountain of youth. She seemingly has no friends to impress, or even sycophants to shine her. We can forgive and root for an unsympathetic main character if we’re provided a root cause for their actions. Elisabeth remains a fame obsessed cipher. Qualley oozes a transactional sensuality as Sue but most of her screen time is twerking, vamping, and resenting her older self.

While the theme here is indicting male gaze sexism, Fargeat’s camera encourages ogling and piles up gluttonous glute close ups during the repetitious exercise show segments. After MeToo the sexist satire seems a tad dated sure; sure there’s still predators aplenty but they’re no longer merely grey haired, corporate suits.

Along with Moore, the selling point isn’t the blunt messaging but Fargeat’s pugilistic approach. There are arresting images galore including frying egg yolks and human eye balls splitting into pairs symbolizing Elisabeth’s two sides. Fargeat is a visually inventive director for our nuance-free era. Her last film, the stylish REVENGE, was a floridly gory rape retribution drama purposely over the top. Here, Fargeat revels in slurpy sound design and intrusive close ups of open maws yapping or lips smeared red. Viewers will either feel jazzed or cornered.

Those who describe THE SUBSTANCE as “a fantasia” may excuse it from adhering to strictures of plausibility. However, since it won Best Screenplay at Cannes, it’s fair game to point out plot holes left unfilled. For instance, Elisabeth accesses her Substance kits in a sterile locker room obscured in a gnarly back alley; such a dodgy address hardly befits a self-improvement program that in our kill-for-Ozempic era, would go for big bucks in some tony styled plastic surgery office.

For all its concussive imagery, inspired make up effects and forward momentum, THE SUBSTANCE (like so many other ‘Can You Take It? horror flicks) doesn’t know when to quit. The final twenty minutes or so, where the two halves of Elisabeth are merged in grody, prosthetic glory, echo David Cronenberg’s body horror masterpiece THE FLY as front teeth, an ear and other body parts fall off.

A public-facing finale lays on the perils of fame idea thick. It riffs on the prom scene from Brian De Palma’s CARRIE (for my money, the finest Stephen King film adaptation) and tosses in a Bernard Herrmann musical cue from VERTIGO. Fargeat spilt 36,000 gallons of fake blood for the scene. Such crimson over kill italicizes why THE SUBSTANCE makes us burp, our need for sensation sated, more than quiver.