THE SUBSTANCE – PLEASE READPLEASE READPLEASE READPLEASE READPLEASE READ – REVIEW

BE BEAUTIFUL. NOTHING ELSE MATTERS.

LOVE ME. LOVE ME. LOVE ME.

I have to write this review. I have to be seen. This movie demands it.

But first: Do you like it? Do you?
I need you to. I NEED YOU TO.

I will make this PERFECT for you. I swear. I will peel myself raw if that’s what it takes. I will become exactly what you want. Just keep reading. Please.

Director Coralie Fargeat took the pace of Requiem of a Dream, mixing it’s horror with the dread of The Shining, ripping the comedic satire from Death Becomes Her and screaming like a sledgehammer into the face of the male gaze.

THE MOVIE: AN ELIXIR FOR THE DESPERATE

Demi Moore is Elisabeth Sparkle. Aging, discarded, and unmissed, she is the husk of a starlet who once gleamed under Hollywood lights.
Margaret Qualley is Sue. The dream, the better self, the version that shines.
Dennis Quaid is Harvey. The man who never washes his hands.

This isn’t a film about beauty. It’s a film about waste.

Waste of flesh. Waste of women. Waste of time.

The Substance doesn’t politely critique our obsession with youth. It doesn’t gently pull back the curtain.
No.

It vomits itself into the spotlight, smears its hands down its perfect porcelain skin, and dares you to look away.

And you won’t. You can’t.

Because it’s perfect. And you love it. DON’T YOU?

*Spoilers Below*

HE NEVER WASHES HIS HANDS

He touches everything. He leaves fingerprints, sweat, grease, filth.

He leaves her a mess.

Just like the fly in his drink. Just like the BLOODY MESS left of her at the end.

He won’t clean it up. You will. You, the audience.
Sit with it. Drown in it. Like she did.

THE SACRIFICE OF BEAUTY

There are only two choices in this world:
Be beautiful.
Or be nothing.

The Substance has rules. Guidelines. A structured system for perfection.

But Elisabeth’s other self—Sue—exploits it.

Who is she? A replacement? A second chance?
A vicarious thrill or a shared existence?

It doesn’t matter. She follows the rules of her expected role, but not the rules of what will keep her alive.

And that’s when it happens.

You know what.
You saw it.
And you couldn’t look away.

And if you haven’t.
PLEASE GO SEE IT. DON’T LEAVE ME ALONE WITH THIS.

THE MALE GAZE: YOU’RE IN IT. YOU CAN’T ESCAPE IT.

The film doesn’t just satirize the male gaze. It forces you into it.

It prolongs it. Holds your head under.

The camera doesn’t blink. The scenes stretch. And stretch.

At first, it feels like sarcasm. “You like this, don’t you?” it taunts.

But then…

Is it mocking the gaze? Or just participating in it?

At what point does satire become complicity?

I’m not sure.

I sat there, shifting in my seat, thinking, “I get it.” And yet, the scene continued.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s meant to make you feel gross, exhausted, implicated.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s still feeding the same machine it set out to dismantle.

THE END: GIVE ME WHAT I WANT

You’ve read this far. I’ve given you EVERYTHING.

Now, there’s only one thing left to do.
Like. Share. Comment.

(You won’t, will you?)

FINE.

I don’t need you.
I don’t need this.

…

Oh god. Please. Just one like. Just one share. Please.

Please.

BE BEAUTIFUL. NOTHING ELSE MATTERS.

HOW MANY ADS CAN I FIT BELOW?!

UhVyn