Desire, audacity, and revulsion dominate Coralie Fargeat's The Substance. No fuss, it's a primetime body-horror banger. Shades of Paul Verhoeven, Nicolas Winding Refn, and Frank Henenlotter blend into a monstrously chic showbusiness roast session. Fargeat's weaponization of the male gaze becomes a biting commentary that sizzles, smolders, and shimmers with magnificent ickiness. The Substance punches exponentially harder than you're ready for, as Fargeat charges guns-blazing into territories contemporary horror seems hesitant to embrace (or return to).
Demi Moore throws herself into the agonizing existential demise of Elisabeth Sparkle, a celebrity aerobics icon aging out of the spotlight on her 50th birthday. Station bigwig Harvey (Dennis Quaid) demands a younger, hotter host — he fires Elisabeth on her birthday. Distraught, the discarded pop-culture figure finds herself watching a promotional video advertising an underground serum called "The Substance." If Elisabeth enrolls in the confidential program and injects herself with the "Re-Animator Green" concoction, she’s promised a beautiful, 20-year-old version of her perfect self will appear. Before long, Sue (Margaret Qualley) is born, hatched, or whatever you want to call it. All Elisabeth has to do is remember to switch bodies every seven days, or there will be biological consequences.
Moore and Qualley don't "share" many scenes because one's typically a lifeless husk. Still, they establish a dueling Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde routine as they begin despising each other's existence. Moore is a revelation as a performer tossed aside by Hollywood's abhorrent female body standards (who goes full Possession), while Qualley's hotter-than-the-sun starlet attracts the camera like a magnet. One's portrayed like a reclusive hag, the other bubblier than champagne. Fargeat isn't shy as she chastises gender inequality in professional spaces, especially where horndogs and rating numbers dictate beauty criteria. As Moore's Elisabeth stands bare naked in front of her bathroom mirror, a gorgeous woman by any metric, her character can only see failure and decay. Elisabeth cannot escape misogynist rhetoric or cruel sexism when it comes to tying physical looks to self-worth, which Fargeat explores as a cautionary tale (slash furious outcry).
The film's methods of madness are an exquisite display of body-horror grotesqueries. Fargeat first mutilates the human à la David Cronenberg, considering Elisabeth's miracle drug generates a cellular doppelganger that has to … escape. Then, as The Substance evolves and Sue begins abusing her alloted conscious days, Fargeat summons the unsightly weirdness of not only Henenlotter, but Brian Yuzna and Stuart Gordon. Puss-oozing wounds, slimy mutant appendages, and multiplying eyeballs are the tamest elements of Fargeat's bastardization of glamour cultures, leaning more toward creature-feature than one might predict. When your imagery evokes Basket Case, Society, and From Beyond, you're doing something exceptionally right — but Fargeat's no copycat. The Substance is decidedly her own très magnifique beast.
Benjamin Kracun's seductive cinematography leers as dictated by Fargeat's exploitation. Sexualization and objectification are paramount to The Substance, as Qualley's stunning features earn fixated attention — the camera is a slobbering Harvey, the thirsty audience watching at home, and us. Blatant differences in how Kracun films a hermit-dressed Elisabeth from behind while invading skin-showing Sue's personal space represent a lewd sensuality that's stuck between empowerment and obsession. The entire film is gorgeous, from energetic fitness sets to Harvey's gaudy as-heck wardrobe, but Fargeat's manipulation of Kracun's lens cleverly becomes commentary itself. Intentions are never hidden; Sue deserves the camera's adoration, while Elisabeth's over-the-hill depression is better hidden. Everything is intentional, down to a three-second camera angle.
What's most impressive is an uncompromising creative vision. At nearly two-and-a-half hours, The Substance flies by on rocket-powered rollerskates. Fargeat's style is meticulous: Harvey's repulsive slurping noises while sucking down sauced crustaceans, the steel-toed thuds his boots make, symbolism as the camera zooms on a fly drowning in Elisabeth's drink. Miniscule details are paramount to fleshing out Fargeat's universe, like feasting upon Elisabeth's later-stage mania as she angrily and sloppily prepares French recipes like a madwoman. Food binging becomes Elisabeth's vice while Sue indulges in skintight zip-up outfits and ab-shredded motorcycle hotties. There's a fine line between caricature and outright cartoon that Fargeat does not fret, which gives way to a splatterpunk finale that deserves to be marveled for its existence alone.
The Substance, frankly, is a miracle. It's a body-horror masterclass that cranks to 11 and snaps the dial. Fargeat's follow-up to Revenge is even bolder, more fearless, and reminiscent of cult-beloved filmmakers who carved their own niche during the 1980s. You're meant to revel in mess, cringe at spectacular special effects, and let your jaw smack the floor when the film's pièce de résistance emerges. Iconic horror themes of misunderstood creatures and hated outcasts are given a makeover, sculpted into a Hollywood-bred takedown of maintaining relevancy at any cost. The Substance is that and a billion things more, but most importantly, it's one of the best — if not the best — horror movies you'll see this year.
Movie Score: 4.5/5
Matt Donato is a Los Angeles-based film critic currently published on SlashFilm, Fangoria, Bloody Disgusting, and anywhere else he’s allowed to spread the gospel of Demon Wind. He is also a member of the Critics Choice Association. Definitely don’t feed him after midnight.
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