[The following review contains SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]
I’m trying to remove the term “body horror” from my film criticism vocabulary; it’s simply too broadly applicable to be useful as a proper genre classification. In the case of The Substance, though, the shoe fits. Following in the footsteps of such trailblazers as David Cronenberg, Stuart Gordon, and Clive Barker, director Coralie Fargeat embraces the inherent allure of physical transformation, finding sensuality in what might otherwise be considered grotesque; metamorphosis is, after all, an act of rebellion, symbolizing spiritual rejuvenation, liberation from social norms, and transcendence of the flesh.
The movie is, however, a razor-sharp satire first and foremost—a pitch-black comedy drenched in a dissonant cotton candy color palette. The story dissects the shallow superficiality of the entertainment industry, which equates value with conventional beauty; this exaggerated (albeit to a very small degree) depiction of the Hollywood machine reduces human beings to mere commodities, callously discarding them once they’ve been thoroughly exploited—a cruel (and fundamentally misogynistic) attitude personified by Dennis Quaid’s sleazy, arrogant, amoral producer archetype. I hate to hand it to a guy that recently starred in right-wing propaganda masquerading as a run-of-the-mill biopic/vanity project, but Quaid absolutely understands (and relishes) his assignment here, delivering quite possibly the best supporting performance of the year—a crude, vulgar caricature of masculinity so toxic that it infects and corrupts everything it touches. Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley both excel in their comparatively nuanced and emotionally demanding roles, of course, but without Quaid’s deliciously depraved and unapologetically one-dimensional antagonist, the conflict wouldn’t crackle with nearly as much urgency and intensity.
Unfortunately, The Substance is as flawed as the chemical procedure around which its plot revolves, resembling the shambling, misshapen monstrosity that emerges during the climax. At 140 minutes long, the narrative is too bloated and unwieldy to sustain the premise, even taking the genuinely unpredictable twists and turns into account; additionally, the central theme occasionally drowns in its own metaphors and allegories. Nevertheless, I greatly enjoyed the experience, blemishes included; its minor imperfections only serve to make it more compelling.
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