I met my dear friend and feminist partner-in-crime to watch The Substance last Sunday afternoon in our local independent cinema, Genesis Whitechapel. I’d been careful not to read much beforehand but had heard about the body horror elements which have had people running out and vomiting in the aisles. While not a horror buff I am always intrigued by art which centres the female experience, particularly around body image. Right out of the gate, Demi Moore is pitch perfect as our protagonist Elisabeth Sparkle. Misogyny is rife and she wrestles with the conundrum of relevance as a woman experiencing the inevitable phenomenon of ageing.

Justice for Elisabeth Sparkle

It is a film of great isolation, conveying the inner struggle with visceral power. I wondered where this successful, driven women’s friends were. Why didn’t she have a gang of buds to brunch with, gossip to, and compare fantastic coats?

Instead of the glorious cosmopolitan life I envisaged for a woman of her status, Elisabeth seems deeply alone. A famous keep-fit white woman of 50, with her own apartment and TV show, but at the mercy of "The Shareholders” (enjoy) and her vile agent, played by Dennis Quaid.

You may have met such women. She’s there in your corporate workplace, senior but not quite on the board. A man’s lady, she’ll tell you a little but not a lot, her place on the career ladder precarious, and not secure enough to give you a hand up. She’s unsafe, not unkind. A people pleaser. And at risk as a result.

People pleasing in the world which Elisabeth inhabits means pandering to men used to making rules about women’s bodies. About what is and isn’t acceptable. As they walk around with the audacity to display male pattern baldness, busted teeth and absolutely no ass to speak of.

And pander she does. What happens once she’s fired on her birthday for being "too old" is some of the most disgustingly compelling content I have ever witnessed. Just sit tight and try to keep your eyes and ears open all the way through. Cuddling a friend in a blanket helps and this is a public service announcement: Do not buy or attempt to eat snacks. 

Butt stuff

Since the summer I’ve been going to the gym with my 12 year old daughter. My algorithm on social media is now mostly surgically enhanced women’s asses in those stretch leggings with the ruched crack area. It’s all gyatt, as the Gen Alpha kids say.

I’ve never had any issue with my ample behind, unadorned by surgery and thus, not good enough in the eyes of the self improvement stakeholders.

I wanted to look after my body the natural way, hence joining a damn gym. I wanted to do some fun exercise. Something Elisabeth Sparkle became famous for. But the algorithm message is clear, change yourself. You are not ok as you are.

Hag like no one’s watching

There is some satisfying hag material in The Substance which I felt vindicated by and inspired to emulate. When my mother turned 50 she lamented becoming invisible to men but isn’t invisibility supposed to be a superpower? As I age I find myself being catcalled less and less on the street and it is actually nice to not have to do the Wolverine fingers with my keys quite so much on a nighttime commute home.

Newly single female clients often talk to me about starting to embrace doing things when no one else knows where they are or what they are doing. Not being “watched” by someone is a new concept for these women that feels like a novelty. I find this inspiring. Is what we do when we’re not being watched coming from our true self? Can the so-called invisibility cloak of being over 50 add to this liberation for women who may have so far been under constant surveillance? Is the reality actually that getting older can be freeing?

The unravelling

I’ve been making significant adjustments in my own life since moving away from working for The Man like our girl Elisabeth Sparkle. The internalised misogyny developed from this experience has been strong and intricately wound. It is however not impossible to unravel if you can let yourself face it. As a woman this can mean swimming against the tide. Paying attention to the myriad ways we are told we are not good enough and never will be. Then calling bullshit.

It can mean considering our relationships and letting go of or evolving the ones which don’t serve us because they are built around abandoning ourselves and prioritising the wants of others.

It can mean unfollowing the sites which tell us the fillers, and BBL’s, and compression underwear, and buccal fat removal is going to make us into our best self. Let’s come back to why our value should be determined by men in boardrooms who are doing none of this shit? I vow to never inject any kind of self improving substance into my carcass.

This may mean ugliness, as far as the gaze of the “stakeholders” is concerned. Less evolved women may also find this approach repulsive and this can be tough if these women are our friends, peers and family members.

What now?

My best friend died last year at 39. I watched her deteriorate quickly through end of life from an avoidable cancer (if her male care specialists had only been convinced of her pain in time). Watching this film was triggering in bringing back the memories of this fast decline. Age is a privilege we don’t all get to experience. I have lived and that shows on my face and body and brain.

Sitting through scene after scene of flesh-ripping gore in The Substance shifted my perspective as a person who has struggled with facial appearance.

Elisabeth and Margaret Qualley’s Sue were one the whole time. But the accomplished, experienced Elisabeth became the self to hide from. The one who was told, by others, and herself, that she should not be seen. That she was past it. It being young, firm, nubile.

After the film I saw my tearful, stressed face in the fluorescent light of a cramped cinema bathroom and decided to learn to love it. To love it because it’s mine.

Untouched by knives and needles. Naked bar a one-minute-face of makeup done hastily on the way out the door earlier that day. A few wrinkles, a mole, a nose which has been broken multiple times. Lips which when unlined can look small because they blend into the colour of my skin. Thin eyebrows which don’t grow back at any kind of speed. A face which needed more SPF and is now a little pigmented. An almost 40 year old face not classically beautiful, framed by messy curls. A face which if taken to a plastic surgeon would prompt a PowerPoint presentation on how I can bankrupt myself in the improvement of it. A face fortunate enough to know love and joy and have the lines to prove it. A face which has seen some shit.

The Substance has me proposing an alternative option for women. In which we abandon this search for perceived perfection. We say “fuck off” with rage and relish, as Elisabeth did to Fred. We do what we want regardless of who might be watching and judging. We accept ourselves and look however we please at all ages.

And we make it the work of our lives to disentangle ourselves from ever needing approval from “The Stakeholders”.