Fargeat delivers a macabre, funny, tragic, absurd and grotesque Grand Guignol of butts and guts; a bonkers and brutal “beauty horror” that elevates the genre to a hysterically unprecedented heights.
An immensely, unstoppably, ecstatically demented fairy tale about female self-hatred, Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance will stop at nothing — and I mean nothing — to explode the ruthless beauty standards that society has inflicted upon women for thousands of years.
This movie is just brilliant, visceral, over the top, insane fun. It works as a criticism of our current shallow society, but it also works as a classic Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde style horror flick. It's very long and very gross, but I couldn't take my eyes off it, even if my stomach sometimes wanted me to.
The Substance is a remarkable generational battle set in an era where beauty standards hang over women like the sword of Damocles. With its distinct aesthetic approach, the film stands out as one of the year’s best by far.
I enjoyed this ride of titillation, torment, insanity and exploitation to such a preposterous extent that I’ve considered signing up for online therapy to wrestle with it.
Fargeat’s movie can be called many things: a body-horror buffet, a feminist cri de coeur, an evisceration of the sunny, surface-obsessed Los Angeles where it unfolds. It’s also a movie of process, deliberately paced, exactingly observed, and no less gripping for its sometimes gruelling repetitions.
There are too many endings here, as if Fargeat had several great ideas for final images but couldn’t decide on one. So they’re all thrown in, one after the other, as the film wears out its well-earned welcome. Moore and Qualley keep selling it, though.
After two hours and 20 minutes of flamboyantly repulsive variations on this well-worn theme, even the strongest-stomached and most feminist of viewers could be excused for muttering, We get it already.
Absolute greatest movie I’ve seen in forever. Fargeat is nothing short ****.
The score on here is absurd and revoltingly wrong. Get your **** together Meta.
Good premise and first half overall, but missing a lot of opportunities afterward. The cinematography is good, but the scenario favors hitting on the same note over and over again rather than adding nuance and depth. I wish we could've built up some sympathy for the main character, but it was extremely hard to even feel remotely bad for her demise.
I don't get the hype. Body Horror is not really my thing, but that's not why I'm rating this low. The concept was secondary to the story. Good casting, Moore and Qualley look close, but the question of the experience in the switch seems answered as unimportant. The voice on the phone is dumb. Dennis Quaid is a cartoon. I was the only person to laugh out loud when Demi Moore woke up in an old suit, then got kicked half a mile across her apartment. The crawl to the star is a really good scene, but I'm not blown away by a single Cronenberg Carpenter scene. I really don't get the hype.
Repetitive, lifeless, contrived, pretentious art house trash disguised as "mainstream" due to the on-screen talent involved. It feels like a student thesis film made by a horny teenage boy dragged into an overlong senseless feature that just tries to beat the point home over and over again with the same motifs. It is an extremely misogynistic film, committing the exact crimes it is poking fun at, yet done in the poorest manner ever committed to film. Other well-made body horror films like "The Fly" or "Videodrome" have a nuanced depth to counteract the disturbing elements being portrayed on screen. What this amateur filmmaker does is mistake repetitive beats of the EXACT same motifs (eggs, nasty food, more eggs, more nasty food) for gravitas. And she can not direct actors nor write dialogue if her life depended on it. If this was made by a man, it would have inarguably been the most offensive and derided film of the year. To call this anything but trash shows the level of taste the modern critics have fallen to.