The Substance

Where to begin with Coralie Fargeat’s skin-crawling, gleefully subversive, and unpredictably wild showbiz satire? Like a feature-length Twilight Zone episode by way of David Cronenberg, this character piece about burned-out Hollywood star Elisabeth Sparkle cleverly plays with the idea of young women being chewed up and cannibalized by the meat grinder that is the entertainment industry, only to be spit out when they reach a certain age that doesn’t conform to its insidious beauty standards.

Strictly as social satire, Demi Moore’s big comeback vehicle is higher in shock value than in nuance or depth. Ultimately though, we’re talking about pulpy B-movie junk-food masquerading as artsy prestige fare, and a film that commands your attention purely on the strength of its sheer forward momentum and pitch-perfect performances (after that speech at the Globes, Moore has her Oscar in the bag).

The sheer number of murmurs, audible gasps, cheers, and early walkouts in my sold-out screening probably made it the single most memorable moviegoing experience of 2024. The only downside? That it plays so well with a crowd that every home viewing is bound to have serious diminishing returns.