I did not like The Substance. I didn’t hate it, and there are a handful of moments and set pieces that I loved, but as a whole, I was left as cold as the bathroom floor that Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley find themselves on for large chunks of the movie.

Demi Moore plays Elisabeth Sparkle, once the “it girl” with her own Hollywood Star. (I did love the opening shot where we see Sparkle’s star age over time, though, in hindsight, the obvious metaphor at play is emblematic of the whole film). She is now a middle age woman on the decline. When she’s sacked by Harvey (who could that be a reference to?), the studio boss played by Dennis Quaid in all his MAGA-esque glory (if the scenery were edible, he’d have chowed down on it), Sparkle decides to take an experimental drug, the titular Substance, which will create a younger version of Sparkle from her spine (in a deliciously gory scene). As the Sparkles share a consciousness, meaning one is always unconscious, the rule is that they switch every seven days. But as Younger Sparkle (played with enough sexual energy to power a small country by Margaret Qualley) becomes hugely popular, she decides, predictably, that a week is not enough. Consequences ensue. 

The movie is far too long. Even I, who loves gore and boobs, was checking my watch after an hour into the film. Ninety minutes would have been spot on, especially since the movie is so inevitable and predictable. If you haven’t figured out the broad brush strokes of the plot within ten minutes, you’re clearly not familiar with genre cinema. I could have forgiven the linear nature of the plot if the film wasn’t so bloated.

Then there’s the sepsis and spinal fluid. I get that The Substance is only loosely connected to our reality. The 80s vibe that permeates the film, the bright “popping” colours, a fascination with the grotesque reminiscent of David Cronenberg. But, for some reason, I couldn’t get past the lack of sepsis and the never-ending supply of cerebrospinal fluid until the plot demands that sepsis kick in and the fluid is no more. I’m sure this is just a me issue, but I wouldn’t have bugged as much as it did if the film was 40 minutes shorter.

Shortness aside, I might have been more forgiving of these issues if the movie had something interesting to say. But, all we get is that beauty culture is toxic, older woman should embrace their age, and Hollywood is only about the fresh and the new. It’s not that I disagree. It’s that the film doesn’t use its genre conceit to add texture to this idea beyond the bleeding obvious. As much as I loved the utter nonsense and Brain Dead-level gore of the final thirty minutes, it only cemented the film’s narrow vision. Beating to death a point that had already been made.

Saying all that, Demi Moore is superb. She’s required to do some gnarly stuff. Margaret Qualley is also terrific. Both of them are brilliant in the last half hour. And to be fair to Fargeat, she has a startling, weird, and gruesome vision. I just wish the movie was much shorter and a little more nuanced. 

If you’re looking for a contrary position, the great Matthew Cheney, who likes the film a fuck-tonne more than I did, says some smart things about it here.