THE SUBSTANCE (C-minus) - This breakneck science-fiction assault serves as both a Rorschach test and an endurance challenge. See how long you can grasp the reins of its insane plot -- about an aging actress who risks taking a drug that makes a young replica of herself, with predictably disastrous results. I lasted about 100 minutes, before this went off the rails in the final 40 minutes.
Provocateur Coralie Fargeat (her first effort was called "Revenge") writes and directs this hammer to the viewer's skull regarding what society thinks of women once they age out of the starlet classification. She is anything but subtle. Her opening scene is a clever time-lapse montage of a plaque being placed on a walk-of-fame for Oscar-winning actress Elisabeth Sparkle, a star-shaped plate that quickly gets trampled and endures wear and tear, with cracks eventually forming across its face.
Cut to Demi Moore as Sparkle, a Jane Fonda type who spends her middle age leading aerobics classes on a popular TV show. But she is quickly fired (right when a birthday hits) by evil network executive Harvey (Dennis Quaid), a disgusting pig who demands a young replacement. (You see, men are allowed to be horrific, but an elegant beauty like Demi Moore is to be discarded as a post-fertile drag on society. Ya follow?)
Sparkle's new self is a nubile clone who goes by Sue and is played to great visual effect by Margaret Qualley ("Once Upon a Time ... in Hollywood," "Drive-Away Dolls"). Sue will take over Sparkle's exercise show and instantly hop on a track to stardom, mostly on the strength of her taut buttocks. This depresses Sparkle, of course.
The key element of this oversized idiot plot is that, after Sparkle "births" Sue out of her spine (go with it), the two must follow a strict regimen in which they alternate consciousness for seven days at a time. But one slip of dosage or any delay in switching over could have negative effects. This comes to pass when Sue brings a date home and is about to have sex just as her seven-day run is ending, so she cheats to buy a little extra time. This results in a minor deformity to Sparkle once she awakens. And, yes, I'm starting to get winded conveying the details of this stupid story.
This all is rendered on a pulp neon palette and in an intentionally exaggerated fantasy world where dialogue is unbelievable and logic goes out the window. The visual style of storytelling could be called David Cronenberg meets Adrian Lyne. Fargeat knows no boundaries in exploring and degrading her actresses' bodies. There is, I would say, an almost shocking amount of nudity involving both Moore and Qualley, considering this is a mainstream movie and very few scenes apparently involve body doubles. The absurdity of the body dysmorphia ratchets up at first slowly (a gnarled finger), gets silly (Sue plucks a chicken leg out of the side of her buttocks, just like those charlatans used to retrieve someone's kidney with just their fingers), and then, like a rollercoaster, everything spills over the top and speeds out of control.
The first half of the movie was entertaining, and its absurdities and plot holes tolerable. You give it the benefit of the doubt. But after the chicken leg, the entire production just jumps the shark. As Sue becomes more and more popular, it comes at the expenses of Sparkle, who becomes more and more disfigured. It's as if Fargeat had no third act up her sleeve, and so she unleashes near-comical horrors to inflict on each actress, culminating in a preposterous scene that recalls "Young Frankenstein," "The Elephant Man" and "Carrie" on steroids. (With a nod to "How to Get Ahead in Advertising.") After those first 100 minutes, it would have been wise to land the plane with a smart, quick final 15 minutes or so. Instead that rollercoaster keeps picking up speed until it flies off the rails and crashes into an orphanage -- pardon the out-of-control metaphor.
Fargeat's style throughout could be called Spumco Verite. When we first meet Harvey, at a urinal, Quaid's bulbous face is on top of the camera in an exaggerated distortion. In his next scene, he is eating shrimp like a slob, and the camera offers closeups inside his mouth. Fargeat is fond of long shots of corridors, with the angles and dimensions contorted in funhouse style. She shoots through peepholes and uses other disfiguring reflections like into doorknobs and camera lenses. She uses rapid-fire edits -- zip, snap, chop -- to dizzying effect. And let's give credit to the foley crew -- Victor Praud, Antoine Swertvaegher and Gregory Vincent -- for their giddy sound effects full of glops and splooshes and splats. (And that is just Quaid's slobbering.) Even tablets of Alka-Seltzer have a maniacal fizz.
It's difficult to convey just how off-kilter the first half is and how unleashed the second half is. Fargeat bleats out the same message over and over and over again. I get it, we punish women for losing their youthful beauty. But battering your actresses in a public flogging somehow seems worse.
* - Holy Crap is an occasional series about unique films, cutting a wide swath from brilliant to awful. Check out previous entries here.
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