Coralie Fargeat’s horror film fights more than just the seven signs of ageing. Like a reverse Dorian Grey, Elisabeth Sparkle, an iconic aerobics instructor on TV (Demi Moore) is let go of by her sexist boss Harvey (Randy Quaid, hilarious and gross) for having the sheer audacity to age.
Furious at being forced into obscurity, Sparkle recklessly drives off, only narrowly avoiding a car accident. It’s while she’s receiving treatment at a local hospital, post-crash, that she’s made aware of a mysterious treatment ominously called ‘The Substance’, which is only available through the black market.
But, this being a Hollywood satire, it means that before you can cry out “Norma Desmond !” another younger, pert yet childlike version of herself called Sue (Margaret Qualley)has replaced her, and the damage is irreversible. Worse still, the injections’ effects keep running out , meaning the two women can only be one functioning side of each other for a week at a time. Call it a body job-share if you like.
Initially, it works wonderfully. Moore and Qualley are very good, giving powerhouse performances as two halves of an unhinged whole. The visuals by legendary cinematographer Benjamin Kracun, are exceptional, white and clinical and red all over, reminiscent of, variously, ‘The Shining’, ‘Under The Skin’ ‘Requiem For A Dream” and many a Cronenberg body horror. There are shades too, of the more grotesque side of Chris Cunningham’s video works, particularly for Aphex Twin.
As a satire on the expendable nature of women and the misogyny of the studio,then, it’s really good, but it becomes increasingly ridiculous towards the end, lurching towards a camp, dark comedy saturated with gore. Self-indulgent is an understatement.
It reinforces all the points with less subtlety, preferring to let the hideous prosthetics of Sue, now decaying, do the storytelling, in huge bullet points. As a result, it runs out of steam, falling back on highlighting the very things it’s supposed to be scrutinising: fear of ageing; the monstering and othering of older female bodies and the pervasive sexualising of youth. It’s hard to be ironic when there are so many leery close-ups, Sir Mix-a-lot would be sated.
There’s an hour and a half’s worth of a good film here, and it must have been a huge amount of fun for both Moore and Qualley. I don’t buy Qualley as a more attractive alternative to Moore, though. She still looks like a goddess. Would that we could indeed bottle her essence.
