How I Finally Understood The Substance
On September 20th, 2024 I see The Substance. I tell two of my male friends that it was a big hit at Cannes and convince them to tag along. We buy three tickets. The girl behind the counter tells us that she saw it with her sister that morning and loved it. I take it upon myself to respond: my sister back home is seeing it today too. She smiles and hands me our butterless popcorn.
The movie starts. I watch the opening scene of a shiny doppelgänger egg yolk. I think, “this is interesting”. It continues. I shyly giggle at the maximalist Kubrickian bathrooms. It continues. Demi Moore finally holds The Substance in her hand. My friend looks at me, mouth curled in disgust at Moore’s naked body in her bathroom mirror. I laugh.
The movie continues. Monstro Elisasue spews blood at the audience. We leave the theatre. I agree with my friends that it’s one of the worst films of the year. How could this get compared to Troma? To Brian Yuzna? Those films had soul, integrity, some restraint.
Weeks later, I go to the Moviegoer and discuss recent films. I tell them I hate The Substance. Sure, I’ll write an article about it. I meditate on it for a couple months. Finally, in December, I sit down at a coffee shop in West Philly and write 1000 words on why I hate The Substance.
I go home for winter break. I stay with my sister for a few days. She thinks the film is okay, needs a better third act. I sit with her husband at the kitchen counter and discuss recent films. He likes Wicked, didn’t see Gladiator II. Agrees with my sister on The Substance. He adds, “Did Margaret Qualley have fake boobs? I wasn’t focused on that, you know, but I’ve met her in person, and she didn’t look like that, so I was just wondering.” My sister chimes in from the neighboring room with a resounding, “Yes.”
I return to Philadelphia. I tell myself I need to submit my finished article. I ring in the new year. I go to the gym. I take the treadmill in front of the window so I can watch myself diligently in the reflection. I come home.
I remind myself I need to submit my article. But it’s been a while since I’ve seen The Substance. Maybe I need to enhance my article a bit, add some details. I get a free trial of Mubi and sit down at noon on a weekday and watch.
I watch the shiny doppelgänger egg yolk. I again think, “this is interesting”. The movie continues. We approach the third act. Elisabeth tells a dying Sue, “You're the only part of me I don't hate.” It reminds me of my mother, who, despite developing an obsession with diet pills and quick-fix plastic surgeries in my young childhood, has never said an unkind word about my body. Elisabeth revives Sue. I understand why. I watch the final act that once felt brazen and now can’t imagine any other alternative.
The movie ends. I ponder it for a while. I open my laptop and look at my article, now a month old. I skim through the introduction and find my critiques.
Aside from Sparkle’s dwindling career as a Jane Fonda-esque workout guru, her backstory is intentionally obfuscated by director Coralie Fargeat, leaving audiences unclear on our protagonist’s real desires outside of her physical appearance. We know that she is a woman—quite a sad woman at that. We know that she is getting older, and we are forced to assume that she must hate herself because of it. Fargeat supposes that Sparkle’s sob story of low self-esteem is so universal that it evades context.
I see now that Fargeat does not suppose, she observes. I am not sure that I have met any woman who does not struggle with body image issues, often to a clinical degree. I wish this were not the case, but it is. Elisabeth Sparkle does not need backstory—she is a tabula rasa fit for female projection. And I am confident that most to all women can understand a sliver of her insecurity—in her career, in her family or lack thereof, in her relationships, and yes, in her body.
I consider this quote from Fargeat, “People often ask if my characters are caricatures, and my first instinct is to say ‘yes.’ Then I think, ‘no, no, they're not caricatures.’ Unfortunately, they are behaviors that have existed and continue to exist.” She is correct. And originally, I made the same mistake as her.
I keep reading.
A conflict between a younger and older version of oneself is inherently intriguing, yet the film fumbles this dynamic with clichéd scenes that lack emotional resonance. I observed praise for one particular scene on social media, where Elisabeth stands in front of a mirror getting ready for a date, before she smears lipstick over her face in self-disgust.
I remember that a mere three days ago, I kept returning to my bathroom mirror to reapply concealer on a frustrating dark spot before I left the house. Perhaps clichés are clichés for a reason.
I keep reading.
After watching Fargeat’s 2017 film Revenge, I began to understand the director’s signature schtick. Fargeat evidently aims to replicate the “male gaze” as much as possible in her treatment of her subjects. For example, both Revenge and The Substance heavily feature their female protagonists in scant clothing with an overall babyish appearance. They put on big doe eyes, they prance around in their underwear, and Fargeat’s camera follows their backsides like she’s shooting an episode of Baywatch. Then, in the latter half of these films comes the so-called reversal.
This is true. And the choice is justified. Sue’s over-the-top feminine appearance makes sense considering her/Elisabeth’s desperate need for praise from the men controlling her career. And I must admit that if I were reborn with a perfect body, I would similarly dance around my apartment like I was in a Diet Coke commercial.
And the reversal is also true. As Sue grows more distant from Elisabeth—and less reliant on male validation—her style becomes less overtly sexualized. She begins to feel more like a whole person. Yet she meets the same fate as Elisabeth: an unavoidable cycle of insecurities. Her teeth fall out, and the smile that once helped launch her career becomes impossible. She demands a better version of herself. The skimpy bathing suits and provocative dance moves were never true empowerment, just a temporary fix—a façade that slowly crumbles.
I keep reading.
The narrative choice of Elisabeth and Sue’s bodily disintegration is not necessarily the problem. It follows in the vein of The Substance’s body horror predecessors, where our cheating protagonists must suffer physical injury as a result of playing God, of desiring for more. Consider the finale of Cronenberg’s The Fly, where the pitiful Brundlefly mercilessly begs for suicide to his grotesque final form. Or even Henenlotter’s exploitation classic Frankenhooker, where the narcissistic male protagonist gets punished by his modern Bride of Frankenstein creation. These films succeed in that they are character-driven first, and satire second. The character arcs thoughtfully evolve from innocent to curious to desperate to fucked. They flesh out their themes of selfish greed while being enjoyable, funny, and most importantly—subtle.
I enjoy all of these films. But only The Substance directly confronts the overlooked issue of how women's bodies are treated—and the disdain they face as a result. Greed and selfishness are universal, familiar flaws, and they can be explored with subtlety. Female self-hatred cannot; subtlety risks undercutting its gravity.
I keep reading, one last time.
It appears that audiences are mostly loving the lack of subtlety in The Substance. They proclaim that this is just what we need to get the point across of women’s suffering. But I have to ask if this overly simplistic messaging is what we should be expecting from films of this caliber. […] It shows women as sole victims, willing to change the fundamental structure of themselves in response to men’s mere comments.
I didn’t like The Substance at first, likely because I was trying to avoid the reality that most women, indeed, are victims. That conversations around women’s bodies go beyond mere comments or jokes—they compose our being. They dictate how long others deem us worthwhile partners or employees. They tell us to spend our New Year’s at the gym instead of with our families. To spend that extra minute dawdling in front of the bathroom mirror. To gawk when we see a woman over 60 on our movie screen. And that no matter how good at your job you are, everyone is talking about your boobs.
I have great respect for Fargeat for being uncompromising—and yes, unsubtle—in her vision. The message may be “overly simplistic,” but that does not mean it is not worth being told. Some people needed to hear it, including myself.
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