Demi Moore as Elisabeth Sparkle in The substance.

Christine Tamalet

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Christine Tamalet

A scene in the 2004 comedy Mean Girls The Plastics, the trio of mean teenagers at the center of the film, stand in front of a bedroom mirror and lament their individual physical “shortcomings”: “huge” hips, ugly calves, “man’s shoulders.” After a few moments, they turn to their quiet new recruit, Lindsay Lohan’s Cady Heron, expecting her to chime in with her own expressions of self-disgust. The best thing she can think of is bad breath in the morning.

It’s doubtful whether Coralie Fargeat had Tina Fey’s fondness for teenage girlhood Keep that in mind when you make up the horror story about her deranged body The substance. Yet the essence of this satirical scene runs through Fargeat’s Cri de Cœur against the idealization and demonization of the female body – how a misogynistic culture teaches us to hate ourselves for not looking a certain way and to accept fate, to become almost invisible upon reaching this position a certain age. Many artistic movements have attempted to push back against these restrictions; The substanceThe weapon of choice to counteract such grievances is a pure wrecking ball that is often exhilarating and sometimes boring.

The substance begins cranked up to 11, brazenly unbridled in its visual and narrative insubtlety: bright, bold color schemes; large and wide performances; Body torn apart. Demi Moore is Elisabeth Sparkle, a Jane Fonda-style aerobics TV star who goes 5-0 and is promptly ousted from her Hollywood gig. Dejected, she drives home but becomes distracted when she sees her smiling face unceremoniously ripped off a billboard.

She collides with another car and miraculously recovers. Still, her nurse slips her a USB stick labeled “The Substance,” with a phone number to call and a tantalizing message: “It changed my life.”

A self-administered injection of the substance serum creates a younger, hotter version of Elisabeth – “Sue”, played by Margaret Qualley – but only for seven days at a time. After that time is up, she must return to her older self and repeat the process over and over again…or else. “Remember that you are one,” says the card in her supply set.

Margaret Qualley as Sue.

Christine Tamalet

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Christine Tamalet

As these stories continue, Fargeat takes aim at an expected source of Elisabeth’s drastic decision – men – albeit only peripherally. Dennis Quaid takes it to the extreme in a few scenes as Harvey, the brash, boorish TV executive who carelessly fires Elisabeth and eagerly hires Sue.

What’s more interesting is The substance is an internal character study born in an exciting year that has seen several female and non-binary filmmakers use rich, immersive storytelling to convey complicated relationships to the physical self, including that of Jane Schoenbrun I saw the television light up and Marielle Hellers upcoming adjustment of the novel Night slut. Fargeat’s intention is not just to draw attention to the external pressures women face to take extreme measures to achieve a narrow definition of desirability; She wants to immerse the viewer in a vicarious experience of the physical and psychological toll it all takes.

After that first injection, Sue’s violent, terrorizing “birth” from Elisabeth’s body is a technological marvel and, like most of the film, not for the squeamish. (The visual and special effects team consists of Pierre-Olivier Persin, Bryan Jones, Pierre Procoudine-Gorsky and Jean Miel. We’ve come a long, long way since David Cronenberg The fly.) New cells form, skin breaks, blood oozes, and Fargeat takes his time over several agonizing minutes to ensure that your senses are touched and engaged by every embarrassing part of it.

This early scene is hardly sufficient preparation for what follows for the rest of the running time, as Elisabeth/Sue is consumed by an existential plague. Sue, sassy and “perfect,” replaces Elisabeth as the new aerobics “it” girl during her waking hours, while Elisabeth spends her hours fretting over her other half’s rise and her own continued existence as an old woman. The seven-day “equilibrium” of time begins to tip in one direction and things get worse.

This is a massive showcase for Qualley and especially for Moore, perhaps channeling the aggressive, ever-squirming spirit of Faye Dunaway Dearest mom and late period Bette Davis. On paper, her character is poorly drawn, no family or friends to speak of, no backstory other than her identity as a faded TV star; Elisabeth and Sue are instead pure ids, powerful vessels through which they can transmit Fargeat’s primal scream.

This primal scream is fair and effective to a point. Fargeat relentlessly ups the ante, while Moore and Qualley are completely committed to the absurdity and monstrosity of their characters’ shared development. Some viewers will fully indulge in this excess, but during a particularly nasty scene in the third act, the brilliant motif felt like a club wielded with such brute force that my senses were dulled. I was simultaneously in awe of the boldness and unsure if the message lost its appeal because it was fair so much.

At the same time, the exaggerated approach seems to be an argument in itself, considering that little has actually changed even in the wake of campaigns like the body positive movement. The goalposts were merely moved.

Curves and body fat are socially acceptable and even celebrated, depending on where on the body they occur and who inhabits that body. (And if you don’t have them, you can always buy them at your own risk.) Hollywood’s standards for older women have loosened compared to decades ago, although the unspoken definition of “aging gracefully” remains restrictive; We admire actresses like Jennifer Lopez (55), Halle Berry (58) and even Moore (61). Because They don’t look their age. (Moore was open about her past struggles with eating disorders and aging in the industry.) It makes sense for a movie to be liked The substance would come and unleash such unbridled rage at the thought of it all.

The film’s final, drawn-out shot is a breathtaking vision, both grotesque and cathartic. As it unfolds, after nearly two and a half hours of all manner of chattering, slurping, banging, bleating and rotting – not to mention butt-fucking; so many butts – it’s surprisingly relatively subdued and almost calming. It’s a bold conclusion that inspires deep admiration for its creator’s ambitions while also instilling in him a sense of accomplishment for seeing the ever-escalating madness through to the end.