WTF Did I Just Watch? The Substance (Review)

Just finished watching The Substance. My brain feels like it’s been pureed and served back to me in a pint glass. I can’t decide if it’s a masterpiece or a crime scene, but either way, it’s lodged itself in my head, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get it out. As the credits rolled, I was laughing, cringing, and audibly asking myself, “What the actual fuck just happened?”  

This thing is a parade of references for film nerds—like a chaotic love child of The Shining, Videodrome, Carrie, The Fly, Alien, and a dozen others I probably missed.

And yeah, it’s nasty. Gross. Disturbing. But beneath all the flesh-melting depravity is an inescapable sadness, like an existential sucker punch. The whole movie feels like an allegory about the price we pay chasing perfection. What we do to ourselves when we’re young often carves away pieces of the healthy old age we might’ve had. And when you’re older, clawing back at youth? That’s a fight you’re never going to win. Time isn’t a polite negotiator; it just shrugs and keeps moving forward.  

Cue Elisabeth (Demi Moore) and her downward spiral. The serum at the heart of this nightmare, a suspiciously green concoction called “The Substance,” promises to create a younger, more beautiful version of you. Sure, Jan. What it actually does is spawn Elisabeth’s “replacement,” Sue (Margaret Qualley), in a yucky sequence that’ll haunt your dreams.

Watching Elisabeth literally destroy herself. Physically, emotionally, chemically, because society convinced her she wasn’t enough? Brutal. And the fact that the world cheers her on as she unravels? Even worse, but a pretty accurate reflection of society.  

Demi Moore kills it. The movie lingers on her beauty, but Elisabeth herself is drowning in self-loathing. There’s this scene where she’s getting ready for a date. Sweet at first, as she remembers a compliment and smiles to herself. But then it spirals into this obsessive horror show, where every tiny “flaw” becomes a monster in her head. I felt personally attacked. If you’ve ever stood in front of a mirror and nitpicked yourself into oblivion, this scene is going to wreck you.  

And Margaret Qualley? Absolute menace. When Sue “emerges,” Qualley somehow contorts her familiar face into something… wrong. It’s not just body horror; it’s identity horror. She owns the final act like a feral animal, and the practical effects here are jaw-dropping. You’ll want to look away, but you probably won’t. (Probably.)

Visually, the film is stunning. The grotesque imagery is framed with this weird elegance, like a twisted art gallery exhibit. Vibrant, minimalistic, and deeply unsettling. Even the sound design feels alive, especially the “voice” of the Substance. It whispers straight into your brain like some ASMR demon.  

Some have accused the film of pandering to the male gaze or demonising older women’s bodies, but I’m not sure I agree. The Substance is far more nuanced than that. It’s a horror fable about what happens when we refuse to accept the passage of time and a visceral critique of the societal pressures that fuel that refusal. As women, we’re bombarded with the same impossible message on repeat: be perfect, sexy, thin, young, and beautiful. Or else. And if you don’t measure up? Society will erase you. It’s a cruel bargain, one that director Coralie Fargeat confronts head-on, wrapping her message in Cronenbergian body horror and unflinching satire.

Fargeat has said this film is about women’s bodies. How they’re scrutinised, fantasised about, and criticised in public spaces, and how these demands become a jail we willingly lock ourselves into. “For more than 2,000 years,” she notes, “women’s bodies have been shaped and controlled by the desires of those who were looking at them.” Through commercials, movies, magazines, and now social media, we’re sold the same fantasy of the “ideal woman,” a figure meant to deliver love, success, and happiness. But step out of those narrow boxes by aging, gaining weight, or just daring to exist differently, and you’re told you’re done.

The Substance doesn’t just critique these expectations; it detonates them. Fargeat describes the film as “playing with the destruction of women’s bodies to break free of those constraints that have been corseting women for so long.” The film’s blood-soaked imagery isn’t just there for shock value. It’s a visual metaphor for the way society tyrannises and ridicules women under the guise of so-called ideals.

The movie is personal for Fargeat, who wrote it as a response to her own struggles with societal expectations. “When I was about to turn 40,” she reveals, “I started to feel very depressed because I thought, okay, this is the end. I won’t be able to please anymore. I won’t be able to be valued, loved, noticed.” Even with her feminist background and sharp awareness of these issues, the toxic messages of ageism and body perfection had infiltrated her mind. The Substance is her way of confronting that inner monster, what society made her believe was monstrous, and reclaiming it.

The film doesn’t flinch: you can’t undo what’s been done, it says, so stop trying to reverse time and learn to live with the one thing you can’t outsmart. And, most importantly, remember this: external validation and the opinions of others aren’t worth destroying yourself. In Fargeat’s words, it’s “about time to blow all this up.”

Final verdict? Wow. What the fuck. What. The. Fuck. I still don’t know if I loved it or hated it. But I know I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s a hideous, tragic fever dream laced with meaning. Whether you love it or reject it like a rotting chicken drumstick, it’s destined for cult classic status.

Note: I don’t feel like I can rate this one right now. The Substance achieved exactly what it set out to do, but this isn’t a film that fits neatly into numbers or categories. Maybe I’ll revisit it and give it a score after a rewatch, but for now, it’s an enigma.