A tiny wrinkle, a bump on the skin, a sagging jowl. When we see any signs of physical flaws in our bodies, we zoom in on the culprit. The tiny “defect” is magnified in our eyes, and our insecurity creeps in. The “aberration” is all we see in our reflection on the mirror.

Coralie Fargeat employs the same obsessive lens that zooms in on body parts in microscopic detail in her satirical sci-fi body horror, The Substance. Extreme close-ups or macro shots of the iris, a wrinkly flesh on the ankle, or a skin puncture are hyper-focused — much like some women’s hyperfocus on their physical appearances.

The French director’s sophomore film, which nabbed the 2024 Cannes Best Screenplay, raises eyebrows for its many plot holes. Still, the movie is too enjoyable for you to care about the irrational details. There is no subtlety here either: Fargeat’s message keeps blowing up in our faces, and that’s fine. The message centers on negative body image. Fargeat utilizes gore, extreme violence, and blood (too much blood) in her cinematic commentary on Hollywood’s obsession with physical perfection and celebrities chasing that elusive fountain of youth.

Set in L.A. during a time when NSFW entertainment shows have become the norm (TV fitness programs are shot like pornography, and New Year’s Eve shows feature topless women), the movie takes us into the life of Elisabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore), a fading, aging Hollywood star. She is experiencing her worst birthday ever. Her network boss, Harvey (Dennis Quaid), wants her replaced by a new, younger woman and then she gets into an accident (awesomely filmed from inside the vehicle).

With her self-esteem at rock bottom, Elisabeth succumbs to a black-market drug called The Substance, which allows her to clone herself — creating a better version of her (Margaret Qualley) — young, collagen-rich, telegenic, and with body parts “all in the right places.” But the caveat? Elisabeth and her clone cannot be conscious at the same time.

The predictable conflict arises when the young clone, who calls herself Sue, becomes addicted to her youthful attractiveness and growing stardom, to the point where the substance’s strict bi-weekly usage becomes a hindrance and a hassle.

Fargeat utilizes the body horror subgenre with uninhibited pleasure. The film impressively relies on 99 percent practical effects — using stunning prosthetics and ingenious cinematography — to maximize the horror impact of body violation, extreme unnatural transformations, mutilations, and disfigurements.

The process of administering the drug alone is surgically gruesome. You just have to suspend your disbelief regarding the dexterous Elisabeth/Sue, who effortlessly performs injections, medical stitching and IV insertions like a veteran ICU nurse, on top of being a handyman who does bathroom renovations with ease and cartoonish speed.

The narrative is predictable, of course, but the journey is never dull. Vibrant colors permeate the film, with DP Benjamin Kracun executing Fargeat’s vision of wildly stylish cinematography, hyped up by composer Raffertie’s electronic beats.

Fargeat crafts her film to trigger anxiety and discomfort, as well as abject pleasure, through her art of the grotesque. Everything is magnified and amplified: from the gore to the splatter, the hypersexualization of the female body, and the sound.

Interestingly, the world that Fargeat created does not have social media — today’s tools that highly contribute to unrealistic beauty standards and low self-esteem. Her characters use sleek cellphones, but we never see their screens. It’s an era of television popularity and, bizarrely, an ’80s-like TV exercise program appears to be a favorite among the public, generating high ratings.

These narrative devices are convenient for Fargeat, who employs them to enhance her commentary on vanity, self-esteem, and validation. Hollywood celebrities are clearly the target, as they rely on youthfulness and beauty for their careers and are therefore more prone to cosmetic alterations.

The camera turns into the male gaze, portraying Sue’s fitness show as an obscene display of the pelvic area rather than a workout demo. The shots also cleverly disguise the fact that the film was not shot in Los Angeles (it was filmed entirely in France). It features a Hollywood Walk of Fame star and quick skyward pans to towering palm trees to trick the audience into believing this is L.A., and it works.

Running for two hours and 20 minutes, the film feels intentionally extended to mirror Elisabeth’s lengthy internal struggle, with her indecision wildly swinging between ambition and self-acceptance. The horror here results from the consequences of her greed, combined with a hubristic, almost comical belief that the drug’s usage directions do not apply to her.

Like her critically acclaimed 2017 Sundance hit Revenge, The Substance’s strength lies in its aesthetic appeal. Her striking horror imagery is balanced by dark humor, making for a thrilling, often funny experience. However, it feels anticlimactic when she borrows imagery from Carrie (1976), draws a little from The Shining (1980), and presents a modern simulacrum of Death Becomes Her (1982).

While the film wags its finger at vanity and female commodification, it still inspires introspection — and empathy for women like Elisabeth, who are trapped by the fear of aging and societal pressure. There is a scene where Moore’s Elisabeth puts on makeup in the mirror for a date, erases it, and reapplies it again and again, never satisfied; her self-hate evokes sympathy.

The Substance may not be the masterpiece critics hype it up to be, but it is definitely unforgettable — a must-see on the big screen for fans of gore and body horror — and worth experiencing for Fargeat’s artistic, highly entertaining take on a timeless issue.

4 out of 5 stars

Now showing in cinemas in two versions: R-18 and R-16