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Mandy Sun

The Substance: Caution—Use once. Highly Addictive.

“Have you ever dreamt of a better version of yourself?” 


French director Coralie Fargeat’s chilling feature, The Substance, dares the audience to delve deep into their desires and lays bare the frightening extremes of that pursuit on the big screen. 


Through a blend of body horror, camp, and dark satire, the narrative revolves around Elisabeth Sparkles (Demi Moore), a once-renowned actress who, after being axed from her aerobic TV segment, frantically turns to neon-green Ozempic-like serum injections. The Substance births a younger, idealized version of herself, named Sue (Margaret Qualley), and binds the two to a strict seven-day cycle: seven days for Sue, seven days for Elisabeth. No exceptions.


The body horror is crucial to the film’s messaging, confronting taboos surrounding the female body while dissecting society’s relentless obsession with youth and beauty under the male gaze. The genre explores the terrifying metamorphosis of womanhood as it collides with the inevitability of aging—and the violence simmering beneath society’s beauty standards.


The phrase “beauty is pain” has long been ingrained in our collective consciousness, yet The Substance takes that notion to its most visceral: Sue’s emergence from a raw, deep gash down the center of Elisabeth’s back; her trembling hands as she sutures the gap shut; and the agonizing seizures that follow each transition. And the horror isn’t limited to the physical. Beneath the blood and sinew churns a raw and relatable layer of emotional agony and psychological torture. Moore and Qualley radiate deep-seated self-loathing and unbridled female rage in their performances, making them complex, sympathetic characters despite the monstrosity of their actions.


Paired with the brutality is a sprinkle of cheeky camp. The exaggerated delivery of familiar sexist lines by male characters—teetering on parody—complements the film’s flamboyant ‘70s-inspired aesthetic. Sue’s neon-bright eyeliners, hoop earrings, and aerobic costumes are a nudge to the hypersexualized workout scenes in Perfect (the 1985 film starring John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis, infamous for its steamy, gyrating sequences) and push a level of ridiculousness that protects the viewer from being overwhelmed by the film’s heavier moments, offering respite before plunging back into horror. 


The film’s cinematography is unnerving, concocting a spectacle that not only overwhelms the senses, but also conveys the distressing reality under unattainable beauty standards. The use of liminal spaces, clinical lighting, and shots in bird’s-eye view evokes the sterile morbidity of hospital rooms. Extreme close-ups zoomed onto body parts—from the TV executive’s greedy hands ravaging a plate of shrimp in the opening sequence to the invasive framing of a butt or a thigh during Sue’s dance routines—aren’t simply for shock value. They serve to magnify that voyeurism and objectification.


The sound design mirrors this, with a pulsing rhythm that matches the seven-day cycle guiding the urgent pacing of the film. The soft, gushy sounds of rotting flesh are easily distinguishable from the crisp, bone-crunching sounds of a body mutilating and deteriorating. We are confronted with the full spectrum of pain that encompasses aging and prompts us to reconsider every crack and creak we hear from our own bodies.


At the heart of The Substance is a deep sense of vulnerability. Demi Moore’s performance as Elisabeth is a fearless exploration of the actor’s own aging and self-doubt. Donning wrinkles and age, Moore bares her nude body through heartbreaking breakdowns, violent fixations on her changing body, and the literal spilling of her guts onto white cold tiles. It’s a raw, intimate confrontation of a woman grappling with a loss of control. Opposite her, Margaret Qualley brings an equally personal intensity to Sue, balancing youthful allure with a terrifyingly self-indulgent edge. 


This vulnerability isn’t just limited to the performances—it’s woven into the very intertextuality of the film. Fargeat plays with her obsessions on screen. The bloodbath scene featuring the monstrous “Monstroelisasue,” Elisabeth’s third iteration, is an unmistakable nod to Carrie. The geometric carpeting and red hallways pay homage to The Shining. The decay of Elisabeth’s limbs evokes The Picture of Dorian Gray. This reverence for horror classics extends even to the film’s music selection. At the climax, the triumphant theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey blares as Monstroelisasue’s horrifying form is revealed in all its twisted glory—a surreal moment that blurs the line between horror and high art. 


The most poignant segment of the film is undoubtedly its final act—a drawn-out, absurdist sequence in which Monstroelisasue attends the long-anticipated New Year’s Eve special. With her dismembered body barely holding together, she humorously attempts to beautify herself with earrings and a curling iron, as if these superficial touches could somehow restore her former elegance. While some critics argue that this final act unnecessarily drags, its extended length and mockumentary-style editing and shots heighten the awkwardness and make Monstroelisasue’s presence even more disturbing. The film’s choice to invite the audience to laugh at—and then recoil from—the monstrous figure that Elisabeth and Sue have become is a bold, unsettling move. It’s a confrontation with the tragic irony of a woman who clung so desperately to beauty that she transformed into a grotesque spectacle of her own making.


But not everyone finds this subversion effective. Some argue that the third act verges on hypocrisy: how can a film that spends two acts exposing the horrors of societal expectations and the toxicity of beauty standards suddenly indulge in reactions that mirror those very standards? Yet, I found the final act revelatory. I had to confront the unsettling reality that even as we criticize beauty standards, we still take perverse pleasure in judging by them. The refusal to offer a feel-good resolution and its focus on normalizing unintentional self hatred is refreshingly honest, and is the type of radical feminism that I wished Barbie had. 


What’s most surprising is how effectively the film evokes such contrasting emotions—fear and laughter, disgust and awe—often within the same scene. It left me questioning my own fears of aging and reflecting on how women like my mother and grandmother navigate the world. The film hasn’t found mainstream appeal, with audiences sharply divided between 1-star and 5-star reviews. But one thing is certain: The Substance is destined to become a cult classic. Creating something controversial yet meticulously intentional is, after all, at the very heart of cinema. 


The Substance demands to be experienced. So when you sleep tonight, with dreams of a better you, remember the tale of Elisabeth and Sue—and be careful what you wish for.


Rating: INDY 

 

Mandy is a senior at the college, majoring in computer science and minoring in film and media studies.  Should I insert a fun fact?  


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