THE SUBSTANCE (Coralie Fargeat, 2024)

I had fun at a Saturday matinee of this challenging film from French writer/director Coralie Fargeat, previously known for the movie Revenge. I went in expecting some sharp social commentary on aging from a gender-centered perspective, the costs and rewards of stardom, and the institutionalization of the male gaze in Hollywood. I was also hoping for some of the delirious twistedness of Titane, fellow French director Julia Ducornau’s violent and tender film from 2021. I appreciated how that film claimed the narrative in a powerfully feminist way but not necessarily in to automatically make women into heroes and I was looking forward to another story shaped by a similar perspective.

I was not disappointed (although I’ll admit I was the only patron laughing at certain scenes). I guarantee that I wasn’t feeling as badly as the young couple who left during the final act when things really start unspooling. Perhaps they agreed more strongly with Rachel Handler’s opinion after viewing the film at its Cannes premier than I did (her article is tellingly entitled “The Substance Is Disgusting, Twisted, and Instantly Divisive”):

“Things only get more horrific from there, both narratively and visually. This is one of the most graphic body-horror films I’ve ever seen, managing not only to turn the human body into a revolting canvas of degradation and despair (characters pull out their teeth, rip off their nails, crack their own bones back into place) but rendering all food repulsive. Fargeat shoots Elisabeth — who begins to use food as a form of revenge against Sue — digging into a trussed chicken like she’s violating a human carcass and whisking eggs like they’re liquified guts, spraying the thick yellow liquid across the kitchen and her own decaying body.”

Once you buy the ticket, the ride moves quickly. Film references – even though they don’t feel derivative – fly by constantly and at a pretty fast clip: oh, look, a Kubrick refence! And another one! Is that a shoutout to Stuart Gordon? OMG, another Cronenbergian prosthetic! If you were to take a shot every time you spotted one, you’d be drunk within the first ten minutes. Showing the strong hands of a crafts women, Fargeat confidently manages all the moving pieces in this fairy tale from Hell. Many elements come together to help this blood-red jewel to shine, from its Cannes-winning script, to some of the year’s best sound design, to on-point fashion (that yellow coat! Quaid’s suits! Ms. Qualley in a leather bodysuit!), throbbing beat-heavy soundtrack, and some memorable locations.

As mentioned in many of the reviews to date, thankfully it’s the acting that shines the brightest. The film is essentially a small ensemble performance, firmly anchored by the two incredible lead performances of Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley, the former in a role that’s been called career-defining, the latter in one that puts her firmly in the running for one of the future greats (in fact, in a year’s time she’s gone from unknown to just below Tilda Swinton for me, thanks to supporting roles in Yorgos Lanthimos’ Poor Things and Kinds of Kindness and her lead in the underrated Drive-away Dolls). And, even though he was called in to replace the recently departed Ray Liotta, Dennis Quaid’s frenetic network exec adds energy and color to every scene he’s in, and brings a certain clownishly disgusting intensity to his embodiment of that particular patriarchy.

So be warned going in: there will be blood. A lot of blood. And egg yolks. I was surprised how easy a view it was no matter how disturbing and dark the twists of the tale took me, though, and felt a wry sense of humor lurking just behind the arterial spray. If I was trying to describe The Substance with a quick and semi-inaccurate set of comparisons, it might be Freaky Friday meets Mulholland Drive, written by David Cronenberg and directed by Takashi Miike. It that set-up excites you, then by all means watch it (and may God have mercy on our souls). If the thought of watching extreme close-ups of an over-the-top Dennis Quaid loudly stuffing his maw with shrimp or needles repeatedly going into pus-filled wounds doesn’t sound like your cup of tea, it’s probably not.

Thanks for taking the time