Oscar Wilde, J.M. Barrie, even those blokes who wrote the Bible... all have admonished against the pursuit of eternal youth. Yet none have done so in quite such uncompromising fashion as the gloriously grotesque horror show that Coralie Fargeat presents with The Substance, winner of Best Screenplay at this year’s Cannes Film Festival.
After fading star Elizabeth Sparkles (yes, that is her name) is deemed surplus to requirements as a daytime TV fitness instructor, she’s presented with an offer too good to refuse. Slipped a mysterious piece of paper and a janky USB stick inscribed with the words “The Substance”, the Faustian pact soon becomes clear. Take “the Substance” to incarnate two versions of the self: one is young, crisp, unblemished, and goes by the name of Sue. The other remains the same faded star, put out to pasture by the big bad studio exec known only as Harvey (and yes, that is his name).
Seven days apiece are what each “self” is assigned, one week on, one week off. With her renewed star power, Sue takes back her mantle as studio sweetheart, gyrating for the camera against the hardwood floor like an extra in an Eric Prydz video. But as with all parables, the good times don’t last forever, and her pumpkin arrives in the form of debilitating nose bleeds and head spins, before learning the hard way that the Substance is not to be cheated.
Demi Moore is at a career best bringing a meta pathos to the role of Elizabeth. Margaret Qualley is both dazzling and disturbing, reversing patriarchal power dynamics as Sue and toying with any male character stupid enough to be dragged into her orbit. And Dennis Quaid – well, he’s taking liberties as the cartoonishly loathsome TV boss, Harvey.
Fargeat forgoes any kind of subtlety in her dissection of systemic misogyny, instead opting for broad brushstrokes, each character as transgressive as the next, intense close-ups and high angle shots inflating the caricatures.
With hyper-sexualised iconography that makes the opening scenes of Titane (NZIFF 2021) look like Toy Story, and body-horror prosthetics that’d make Cronenberg cringe, by the time the film’s spectacular finale comes to a close, you’ll be ready for a cold towel and a stiff drink – this one is not for the faint of heart. — Matt Bloomfield
