The Substance: Self-Destruction at its Finest

By Annie Davey

Image courtesy of MUBI

‘We need her young. We need her hot. We need her now.’

Bursting onto the Hollywood scene, French filmmaker Coralie Fargeat delivers a searing exploration of identity, beauty, and self-destruction, reframing the campy tropes of the body horror genre into a sharp critique of societal obsession with youth and appearance. Bold, striking, and grotesquely visceral, the film uses its retro aesthetic and hyperbolic satire to expose the psychological toll of modern beauty standards.

The story follows the ironically named Elisabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore), the once-glittering now withered face of a home-fitness company. At 50, Elisabeth is deemed ‘too old’ by a callous TV executive (Dennis Quaid, repulsively revelling in shrimp as he delivers her dismissal). Desperate for rejuvenation, Elisabeth turns to the ‘the substance’—a vividly green serum that offers an impossible promise: youth and vitality. But the catch is horrifying. The serum births a younger, seductive alter-ego named Sue (Margaret Qualley), achieved through a truly terrifying emergence from Elisabeth splitting spine. The two identities must rotate weekly, remembering they are one. Absolutely no exceptions.

Demi Moore’s casting as Elisabeth is an ironic masterstroke. At 62, Moore’s enduring elegance underscores the absurdity of societal expiration dates placed upon women. Similarly, Margaret Qualley’s portrayal of Sue is electric—smooth, flawless, and menacingly confident, she embodies the dangerous allure of the ‘better self’ promised by the serum.

Fargeat’s vision is undeniably bold. The imagery—bathed in neon and tactile retro textures—grips the senses. The violent physicality of Elisabeth’s transformation turns the stomach. The audience is forced upon an uncomfortable—and arguably painful—sensory journey. These spectacular yet gruesome sequences fittingly serve as a metaphor for the agony endured in the pursuit of idealised beauty.

This meticulous and symbolic use of cinematography is further seen through Fargeat’s use of recurring frames. A recurring low-angle shot of palm trees weaves throughout the narrative, initially puzzling the viewer with its peaceful, almost dreamlike quality. However, in the film’s final moments, it’s revealed that this perspective represents what Elisabeth’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame ‘sees’ as it gazes upward—a poignant reminder of Elisabeth’s fixation on celebrity status which is only rewarded to those who are young and beautiful. How very clever—and satisfying, when realised.

Similarly, Elisabeth’s apartment window offers another recurring and powerful frame. Dominated by a towering billboard, the view becomes an ever-present reminder of Elisabeth’s past and present struggles. Early in the film, the billboard displays her younger, glamorous self—a haunting image that looks down on her with an almost mocking superiority, reflecting the version of Elisabeth that the public and TV executives still idolise. As the story unfolds, the billboard transforms into an image of Sue, who has stolen both Elisabeth’s fame and the public’s adoration. By the film’s third act, the billboard advertises the New Year’s Eve show Sue is set to host—a bitter twist. Having violated the rules of ‘the substance’ by living in her younger body for far too long, Sue is now caught up in—and reminded of—her greed and its chilling consequences.

These visual choices are not only compelling but also deeply symbolic. By repeating these frames, Fargeat crafts a narrative that mirrors Elisabeth and Sue’s internal struggles, visually amplifying their shared obsession with fame and beauty that pushes them toward the film’s inevitable climax: a brutal, bloody fight that epitomises female self-destruction in its rawest form.

Far from ‘super depressing’, as Fargeat herself half-jokingly described her work to ELLE.com, the film is exhilarating in its ability to draw profound meaning from a genre often dismissed as tacky. It proves that body horror, when wielded with intention, can be a powerful vehicle for societal critique.

In The Substance, self-destruction is vividly grotesque, deeply ironic, and disturbingly relatable—a reflection of a world where beauty is both a weapon and a curse.