Trigger Warning: discussions of body dysmorphia. Spoilers for “The Substance” ahead.
“Remember. You are one.”
I watched “The Substance” in an almost-empty theater with three of my friends on a Sunday evening. Every time we looked at each other, at least one of us was gagging, laughing, tearing up, or — most often — covering our mouths as they hung open. As the movie ended, I felt a profound sense of emptiness. I clapped. I said, probably 20 times in a row, “The pursuit of beauty is death.”
“The Substance” follows Elisabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore), an aging actress whose career falls apart after she is no longer seen as beautiful, and — maybe more importantly — no longer seeing herself as beautiful. Out of desperation, she takes a black market drug that temporarily creates a younger, prettier version of herself. The only caveat is, she has to switch with her real body every week. She cannot be her “other self” permanently.
Of course, she takes it. Of course, she doesn’t respect the rules of the drug. Of course, the consequences of that mutilate her.
We, the viewer, can’t blame Elisabeth at all. Her other self, dubbed “Sue,” (Margaret Qualley) is unbelievably gorgeous, and achieves immediate success. She worships herself. She stares at her own billboard from her penthouse, in awe of her body. Her TV show is a carbon copy of Elisabeth’s now-canceled exercise show, but the exercises are almost exclusively young women shaking their asses on the screen.
Meanwhile, Elisabeth withers away.
On the weeks where Elisabeth has to switch bodies, she doesn’t leave the house. She’s ashamed of herself. She spends hours in the mirror, missing plans because she spent too much time changing makeup and outfits until she felt good enough to be seen in public. She never did. She never will. No matter how hard she tries, she will never be beautiful enough.
When Sue begins abusing the substance and not switching bodies as often as she should, she starts slowly — only going over the maximum seven days by an hour — but the consequences for Elisabeth are immediate. She wakes up with her finger wrinkled and aged, as though ripped off of an old woman.
In shock, she calls her dealer and he asks if she wants to end the treatment. She says no. Sue goes over the required length more and more while Elisabeth suffers more and more, but she still doesn’t stop. Ultimately, no matter how much Sue tortures Elisabeth, she is the only thing she loves about herself.
The finale of the movie is the disembodied face of Elisabeth using every last bit of her strength to inch towards her Hollywood star one last time. She smiles, looking at the sky, until she dissolves into a pool of blood. All of her pain, all of her suffering, only to be washed away the next morning.
All I could think at the end of the movie was, “Will that be me?”
I have dealt with aching insecurity for the majority of my life. One of my earliest memories was asking my mother if I was fat when I was 4 years old. My insecurities have only since mutated themselves into something that occupies my thoughts at every second of every day.
Like Elisabeth, I am intimately familiar with canceling plans because I felt ugly. Social plans weren’t the extent of it, either. I’ve called out of work. I’ve slept through entire days because I couldn’t stand to look at myself for one more second.
Even in my alone time, I have cried while taking showers, looking down at myself. I spend ages in the bathroom because I can’t be put in front of a mirror without inspecting every angle, every spot, every pore of my face. I change the position that I sit or lay down in to make sure I don’t feel the parts of my body I hate most.
It’s a miserable, draining existence.
But, I know what it’s like to be Sue, too. I have had periods of confidence. I have had times where I’ve liked my body and face. I am Narcissus staring at myself in the water in those moments. Those are the only times I feel worthy to leave the house. I am happier. I feel like a person. I feel like I deserve to be alive.
Then, that time inevitably comes to an end, and I switch.
Of all the reactions I could have had to “The Substance,” I did not expect it to make me feel like I was watching a twisted, fairytale version of my life. I still don’t know what to take from it. The deep relatability left me even more uneasy than the flesh-ripping body horror that the movie is known for.
And I want better for my life. I want so much better. I look at all of the older women, still suffering with their appearance, and I don’t want that to be me too. I feel so much for them and I know that they deserve to give themselves so much more kindness.
All in all, if the substance was real, I would not take it. But I would get plastic surgery, implants or fillers, if I had the means. Maybe the only thing stopping me from taking the substance is the fact that I’m not yet in my 50’s and don’t need a younger self yet. When the inevitable insecurity of age hits me, will it be too much for me to handle? Will desperation lead me to ignore the dangers of something like an illicit drug, just to feel worthy again?
I’d like to say the answer is no. I’d like to say that when I get older, I’ll even out. I’ll learn to be healthier.
I hope that one day, I will.
