The Substance (Coralie Fargeat, 2024)

The Fountain of Ew

Coralie Fargeat's The Substance (2024), about the decline of celebrity Elisabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore) and rise of her showbiz doppelganger Sue (Margaret Qualley), leans hard-- very hard-- into the idea that beauty is a daily impossible burden for women to aspire to sometimes fail to attain and if they do attain must maintain said beauty for as long as they can-- forever if possible. 

A lovely premise, a worthwhile premise, a ripe slow-swinging juice-heavy target for satire that to her credit Fargeat attacks with machete and baseball bat. Maybe my biggest problem with the film is that after she's cut down said fruit and chopped it to small pieces and hammered each piece into seeping pulp she proceeds to attack other low-hanging fruits, the tree it was hanging from, the surrounding trees, and everyone around watching. Satire needn't always be subtle-- think Cronenberg (who Fargeat cites as inspiration) or Larry Cohen (who can barely stitch together a coherent sequence, much less a coherent narrative) but it helps to have some kind of plan going in before you start whanging away. Fargeat apparently has yet to meet a shrimp that doesn't ooze existential horror or a city sidewalk that doesn't swing wildly to and fro while you walk them-- and no, long or medium shots aren't just for moments gazing down on protagonists as if viewing them from a pitiless height; on occasion you can use said shots to achieve a little emotional distance, dry out a little, maybe give yourself some runup space before you begin your final assault. 

Also helps to start out quiet and sell the story and milieu to the audience before introducing more outrageous conceits-- Cronenberg was capable of that (though on reflection he did open Scanners with an exploding head) and even Cohen worked to make his New York streets believable (didn't have to work that hard, his cast and filmmaking already had the attitude). 

I'd even cite Robert Zemeckis' Death Becomes Her (1992), another mordant comedy about women aspiring for undying beauty, and which I suspect is Fargeat's biggest influence: Zemeckis took the effort to sketch out his women (played with memorable zest by Goldie Hawn and Meryl Streep) so when the magical premise is finally introduced-- a potion that gives you literal immortal life-- we feel the intense rivalry between the two and believe they'd do horrific things to each other out of sheer spite. Plus Zemeckis for all his cartoonish style is an inventive comic director and good for frequent laughs, and the occasional jawdropping image.

Fargeat goes for one jaw drop after another for nearly the entire two and a half hours-- it gets tiresome, not to mention numbing; you want to ask her to back off a few inches, allow you to breathe. Doesn't help that she's only given realism a token nod-- will a TV producer in his right mind or for that matter any employer in his right mind, allow a new hire that kind of liberal schedule Sue is granted (one week working, one week off)? Can anyone no matter how beautiful shoot to the top so high, so fast? Can Sue walk the hallways of power without being propositioned, sexually harassed, at least catcalled? And does anyone still watch exercise shows (shouldn't they at least be on a socmed platform like Instagram or Tiktok?)? I can see Sue succeeding given time (but Fargeat is likely too impatient); I can see Elisabeth helping Sue out, maybe with a call to Dennis Quaid's Harvey or a letter of recommendation (but that would mean they're already collaborating); I can see Harvey coming on to Sue big time (for all his repulsive oral treatment of seafood he seems unaccountably sexless). The Substance itself is a clunky program sketchily explained, which I know is part of the genre (wish fulfillment always come with poorly explained consequences, and here-- nice touch-- a man's voice impassively and implacably and repeatedly explains to both Elisabeth and Sue that at all times "balance must be maintained"); part of the genre's challenge tho is making said machinations at least halfway plausible, if not comprehensible. 

All that said Fargeat does come up with memorable images-- Elisabeth's Hollywood star accumulating cracks and stains; Elisabeth's eyeball dividing and multiplying like a fertilized egg; Sue in the middle of a shoot suddenly sensing something pop out one ass cheek and having to run to the bathroom to investigate (that's not cellulite on your upper thigh, honey). When Fargeat goes for the smaller often analog-based effect she comes up with moments we haven't seen before and aren't sure we ever want to see again, the gold standard on which the best satirists operate, and for all the heavy effects and wall-painting gore perhaps the most horrific scene has to be Demi Moore staring at herself in the mirror and slapping her face again and again and again. Never warmed up to Moore, a chilly unsympathetic presence, but here and especially in this moment I totally felt her desperation more than in any other, in the film or her entire career. 

I mentioned Cronenberg, Zemeckis, Cohen, but body horror and in particular horror as a consequence of the quest for immortal beauty is nothing new in cinema. Frankenheimer's Seconds (1966) might be the male equivalent (helped that star Rock Hudson desperately wanted to tear down his glamour image) and Billy Wilder's Sunset Boulevard (1950) the relatively subtler high water mark (with added bonus that the man Joe Gillis (William Holden) who sits judgment on has-been star Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) is himself a well-rounded antihero of a character, and receives his own comeuppance). The thirst for immortal beauty goes as far back as the Queen casting envious glances at Snow White in Disney's 1937 adaptation, and the Brothers Grimm's nineteenth century story collection; it's cautionary fable that deserves to be retold over and over again-- to remind us-- and Fargeat makes a brave attempt at an update. 

Maybe in the last ten minutes the film achieves a bit of the greatness it so desperately (like Elisabeth come to think of it) wants to achieve-- should have achieved, if it managed to relax a little and trust its material more. That final shot circling back to the opening has the kind of pitiless irony Kubrick or Bunuel might look upon with admiration, and makes you want to ask: is Fargeat talented? I think so; here's hoping she works on gaining a little more control over that talent, in her next project.