What does a rat feel? Revulsion. Discomfort.

Both can be essential to great storytelling – when used carefully. But The Substance isn’t careful.

It is an anthem to the grotesque, mistaking shock for substance. A film that can’t be enjoyed – only endured.

It believes pushing discomfort to the extreme makes a profound statement about fame, beauty and Hollywood’s exploitation of women. But its heavy-handed approach, artificial production design and indulgence in shock tactics undercut whatever commentary it thinks it’s making.

The opening segment depicts the cement pouring of Elisabeth Sparkle’s Hollywood star. We see more of this later in the film’s closing moments. A bold visual choice that suggests The Substance is operating on a grand thematic scale. But like much of what follows, its ambition outweighs its execution. It avoids shooting on Hollywood Boulevard, opting for an artificial soundstage version instead. It wants to feel dreamlike. Instead, it feels like a cheap imitation of reality. It’s another layer of artificiality on a film already drowning in it.

A sophisticated viewer can’t escape into this world. The film wants us to stay aware that we are watching something staged. But never finds purpose in that decision. The ketchup-smearing, the exaggerated performances, the lack of real-world immersion – it stands back from mainstream cinema, offering commentary on fame and stardom, yet never justifies why its own theatricality matters.

Even exterior shots feel just as artificial as the plastic interiors. This near-future Los Angeles is an empty, motionless husk. No automobile traffic, no pedestrians, nothing to suggest life beyond the immediate scene. The result is an uncanny sterility that feels more like an oversight than an intentional choice. It’s not a world, just a series of sterile stages.

The grotesque is meant to unsettle. The Substance lingers too long and revisits too often. It bludgeons the viewer instead of unsettling them. This is clearest in its body horror. The difference between unsettling horror and empty provocation is simple: restraint.

The finger transformation is enough – one moment to illustrate the rising stakes. Instead, the film fixates, revisiting the image until its power dissolves into retching. The Substance doesn’t trust its audience to understand discomfort. It insists on holding the camera on every oozing, gaping wound. It seems to demand, Do you feel sick yet? No? Let’s keep going.

There is one scene that works. Elisabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore) applies makeup before a date. She looks perfect yet feeling self-conscious, she applies even more. This has an increasingly deteriorating effect. A glimmer of good filmmaking – a moment where the horror emerges naturally from a relatable insecurity. Then, true to its instincts, it upends, taking it one step too far. It attempts a third round of application. This stretches credulity and beats the dead horse. Moderation is not in its vocabulary.

The film seems desperate to punish its audience for appreciating beauty.

“You like seeing Demi Moore’s body?” it sneers. “Let’s see how you feel when it’s mutilated. Or infected. Or deformed beyond recognition. Still enjoying it?”

It’s a juvenile provocation – one that says nothing new but screams it at full volume. The film doesn’t explore the commodification of the female form. Instead, it weaponizes it. It mocks those who enjoy its first presentation.

By the end, the viewer feels trapped. Several patrons in my auditorium fled during the climax. At least one person can avoid the visual by closing the eyelids. Panicked, writhing masses midst a fire hose of blood. But men shouldn’t cover their ears, so for some, there’s no escape.

The screaming. Oh, the blood-curdling screaming. And the punk rock.

Sloshing. Straining.

★

Briefer thoughts at: IMDb & Letterboxd.

Read Nosferatu for more horror that doesn’t work.