Oh my, Coralie Fargeat’s “The Substance,” an instant body-horror classic, is the best film I’ve seen, so far, at Cannes. This is an absolute onslaught of audacity— sound, imagery and blood, tackling Hollywood’s obsession with female beauty.
It’s no secret than an aging actress in the industry is frowned upon and Demi Moore plays one here. Moore’s Elisabeth, past her prime, has just been fired from a TV show by her clownish and crude boss (Dennis Quaid) who tells her women over 50 are disposable.
This desperately gets Elisabeth looking for a solution. It comes in the form of a mysterious package of chemicals she stumbles upon called “The Substance,” which “reenergizes” her DNA and spawns a younger version of herself (Margaret Qualley). This new version quite literally comes out of her spine, in grotesquely Cronenberg-ian fashion.
There is a catch, it’s critical she maintain a balanced life. Every seven days one of them has to enter a coma, kept alive via a feeding tube, while the other roams free and lives her life. Then they switch. It doesn’t take much time for Elisabeth to get hooked on her younger self, Sue. The process starts going haywire, she doesn’t adhere to the seven-day rule, which effectively renders her older self to age very rapidly.
Sue and Elisabeth soon turn on each other, the social pressures are too much for there to be an older version. It must only be Sue. The examining of female actress’ self-hatred is somewhat of a taboo subject in the industry. These nasty beauty standards get torched here and there’s no doubt that Fargeat, 48, sees herself in Moore’s Elisabeth.
Moore is sensational, in one of the best roles she’s ever been given, and she goes full-on gonzo with her performance, which keeps shapeshifting at every turn, with nary a false note. Margaret Qualley keeps surprising us with her young career, nailing another boldly provocative role. Both are nude for much of the film, and it’s necessary, for Fargeat to meticulously examine the changes that come in the female body
While the film is damn-near perfection for its first two hours, Fargeat decides to spring on us a third act that is one of the most over-the-top, and disgusting the body-horror genre has ever had to offer — there are many elements of Cronenberg’s 1986 masterpiece, “The Fly,” a regeneration of sorts, filled with blood and guts, that has to be seen to be believed.
The practical effects and prosthetics, from Pierre-Olivier Persin, are some of the best I’ve ever seen. They are gloriously unhinged, gratuitous, gooey. Fargeat’s vision is immense, she’s made a brilliant feminist Hollywood satire that mixes “Sunset Boulevard” with “The Fly.” It’s a dark, funny and bloody essential [A-]