Back when I reviewed the infamous “Martyrs”, I called that film by many names and phrases to describe my abhorrent fascination with it but me calling it “an art house show that leads straight into the bowels of depravity” was the best I could describe it. I didn’t think another such movie would come along to earn that description.
And then “The Substance” came along and gave me a lethal injection.
Some would say Coralie Fargeat’s sympathy is her biggest strength in navigating the treacherous waters of this subject matter. Me personally, it’s her liberating release of restraint and unshakable confidence in how brazen she flaunts her keen eye for satire on full display that captures that cost. There’s something almost parasitic about how gleefully she feeds into the metatextual and voyeuristic while parading every jigsaw in place like an evil sorceress.
Constructing this heightened reality as a resemblance to more of a hyperreal fable, I thought, was a gamble that the production design couldn’t feasibly capture. Boy, did Stanislas Reydellet prove me wrong. So much of this has a Patrick Nagel painting slideshow feel: its stylized, lip-glossy look carries the promise of stability but even these simplistic colorful set designs barely manage to hide both a bleak sense of emptiness, despair and mysterious omens of what is to come. The world comes off both familiar and nightmarishly distorted due to the skewered lens highlighting everything in abundance.
Unlike Borderlands, this presentation is strictly a more sharpened, purposeful attempt at maximalism and extracting maximum audience discomfort.
Benjamin Kracun’s cinematography might as well be catnip; intentionally framing the most beautiful images in a luxuriatingly nauseating filter to where it’s purposefully commercialized while the overly kinetic editing turbocharges every frame into graphic art. Its R-rated violence properly reflects the type of absurd violence one can do to their own bodies through exaggerated body horror and gore, tension here has a pulse that doesn’t overstay its welcome, even the 80’s synth pop-inspired score becomes just as two-faced as the rest of the feature and I’m very impressed in how the tone goes from despairing tragicomedy, scientifically minded body horror or All About Eve-style bitchiness without tripping over the other. It’s so bold about its own silliness without lowering it to self-conscious irony but the fact the film is aware of how often it stretches believability and owns up to it gives the audience room to get in on the joke.
Every character here leans into satire with how cartoonish and caricatured they are and yet, it’s hard for that to matter when they’re all still grounded in a plane in reality and everybody plays it extraordinarily well. Dennis Quaid is predictably fun but both Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley are deadlocked for best performance; if you were to ask me which actress had the stronger presence, I genuinely wouldn’t be able to tell you.
With such a raw visceral takedown of both the mistreatment of women and the toxic star machine based on an endless cycle of celebrity worship and the youth fountain, it’s one rare instance where sometimes the more the narrative delves into its own excess, the better it reaps the rewards. A steady, breathless descent into madness that doesn’t have to worry about becoming dull, its predictability can be excused along with the reality of the story being about as subtle as a needle injection. But while its story isn’t that subtle, many of its references and symbolisms are and it takes its time to tell how insecurity and menopause can be its own kinds of horror.
Impossible beauty standards aren’t anything new; if anything, it’s gotten exhausting seeing society and many billion dollar corporations’ hyperfixation on this fountain of youth, seeking the perfect body as a means for control and profit. But self-hatred, co-dependence and obsession play as big of a role in the self-destruction of a woman’s identity, especially in an industry mostly dominated by either incompetent or senile men. Hell, we’ve had plenty of films in since the beginning that dissect that unhealthy habit in so many blatant but creative ways. And while it can be true that competing with yourself leads to a better you, Coralie is fit to remind us how the inverse is just as dangerous if there’s no balance and discipline in that process to where the addiction spirals into disillusionment. I got severe Sunset Boulevard flashbacks in the way it pictures even the simplest of things playing on one’s fears only to irreversibly swallow them whole and never let go.
We all have a finite number of minutes to spend on this planet and the sheer thought of spending all that time on this fatal delusion of fixing things outside of our control…..depresses me. Even though societal pressure exists, it is still a personal choice to either bend over backwards to adhere to them, and to build one's life and value around them.…or just not. Blaming it all on the patriarchy or society (while understandably warranted and justified) is still dodging one's own accountability and autonomy for our own choices especially when we don’t do anything to change our circumstances.
So with all of that high praise, that glorious confirmation that the hype is in fact real…..there does come a caveat. Well, two of them. The dialogue isn’t the most polished, for one. And secondly…..the substance (ha-ha) in its messaging can’t help feeling awfully superficial on the surface. Yes, it succeeds in breaking down the frustration of being an aging woman but age discrimination is also a very real thing; it may not be the movies intention but the way it frames itself can be misinterpreted very easily especially as the movie is hellbent on throwing everything at the wall to make it fit.
But I digress.
Just when I thought the Cronenbergs would keep their title as Masters of Body Horror, in comes sneaky miss Coralie Fargaet and this boiling crockpot with an overabundance of high quality ingredients bubbled and broiled into a sleek, subterranean Neon Demon-style Hollywood parable. This is yet another movie not for the faint of heart so don’t go out looking for this if you know you don’t got a strong stomach or nerves or steel.
Otherwise, dip your toes into the water…..but remember: YOU ARE ONE.
