The Substance, a chilling new body horror film, opens with a striking image: a raw egg with a perfectly round yolk, injected with a green liquid. The yolk begins to quiver, a growth forms, and finally, it splits, mirroring the themes of replication, fragmentation, and destruction that will dominate the film. This powerful opening sequence draws viewers into the unsettling universe of The Substance, a film that masterfully utilizes elements of body horror to expose the violence inherent in societal beauty standards.
Set against the backdrop of our obsession with Botox, Ozempic, and the relentless pursuit of a younger, thinner, more beautiful version of ourselves, the film’s commentary feels incredibly relevant. It’s never been easier to convince ourselves that the answer to insecurity lies in a quick fix, a cosmetic enhancement—everyone else is doing it. And it’s all non-invasive, right? Just a few units of filler here, a nip-and-tuck there. But as we spend more time inhabiting our enhanced selves, the harder it becomes to believe that our natural selves have the right to exist. At what point do these procedures cease to be “voluntary” and become a desperate attempt to conform to an unattainable ideal?
The Substance argues that the pursuit of perfection inevitably leads to self-destruction. While the film’s visceral body horror is the primary vehicle for this message, director Coralie Fargeat employs another subtle storytelling method: color symbolism. Vivid hues of red, yellow, and blue punctuate the film’s visual landscape, marking each stage of the fragmentation and erasure that we inflict upon ourselves in our quest for beauty.
The protagonist, 50-year-old TV aerobics star Elisabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore), is a vibrant embodiment of color. We first see her in a cyan blue leotard, performing the final episode of her show, Sparkle Your Life. Later, she’s dressed in a teal-on-indigo blue pussybow blouse and blazer when she’s unceremoniously fired. Elisabeth, a lover of color blocking, frequently incorporates pops of red, yellow, and blue into her wardrobe, creating a striking visual contrast against the sterile white tiled bathrooms of her apartment. But perhaps the most significant garment in the film is Elisabeth’s yolk-yellow coat. This coat, her signature outerwear, visually foreshadows the process her body is about to undergo, mirroring the splitting egg from the film’s opening sequence. Elisabeth is the “matrix,” the original source from which her other self, Sue (Margaret Qualley), will be born.
Sue, a dewy twenty-something, emerges from Elisabeth’s ruptured spine, leaving her body a dormant shell, lying comatose on the bathroom floor, dependent on soylent-esque “matrix food” IV pouches. As Sue takes over Elisabeth’s life, her identity shift is reflected in her wardrobe’s transition to pinks and purples, chromatic mutations of Elisabeth’s primary colors. Sue, now the star of the rebranded aerobics TV show Pump It Up, sports a metallic pink leotard with cutouts, replacing Elisabeth’s blue leg warmers with orange ones. Her new look is complete with a high ponytail, pink nails, and glittery magenta eyeshadow, a vibrant remix of the original.
As Elisabeth and Sue share a life split between two bodies, their color palettes become increasingly distinct. Elisabeth remains loyal to her tailored pieces in solid primary colors, never leaving the house without her yellow coat. When she prepares for a date, she wears a crimson dress and a red lip, maintaining her signature style. Sue, on the other hand, replaces Elisabeth’s wardrobe with cropped graphic tees, daisy dukes, varsity jackets, and tennis skirts, embracing a youthful, trendy aesthetic. The reptilian motifs in Sue’s outfits, including a black snakeskin bodysuit and a sequin dragon robe, further hint at themes of skin-shedding and rebirth. The more she steals from Elisabeth, the more sparkle, glitter, and sequins we see her wear.
Life as Sue is exhilarating, filled with public adoration, male attention, and professional opportunities. It’s so addictive that even when Sue starts violating the rules, Elisabeth can’t bring herself to stop the experience. Instead, she withdraws, rarely leaving her apartment except to collect her “refill kits.” Her home becomes a prison of self-surveillance, with images of the perfect Sue taunting her from billboards and television screens. As the film hurtles towards its destructive end, the color symbolism becomes even more pronounced. The path to self-destruction is paved with murky colors: pus-oozing purple abscesses, muddy brown fluids, and yellow-brown nails. As Sue’s hunger for control grows, Elisabeth’s body becomes increasingly discolored, bearing the marks of age and damage.
The use of color symbolism in film isn’t new. Films like Poor Things, which depicts self-actualization through the colors of a rotting apple, and canonical horror films like The Shining and Carrie, which employ passionate blood reds and lifeless corpse blues, use color to create specific emotional responses. Sue’s pink-dominated color palette, however, conjures the perky, youthful femininity that is constantly marketed to women. What sets The Substance apart is that it situates these culturally coded colors within the present-day intimacy of our 12-step beauty routines, revealing the inherent violence within these practices. The horror isn’t just on screen; it might be lurking in our makeup bags, in the glow of our red light masks, in the sticky yellow residue of tanning cream.
The Substance delivers a powerful message: we cannot color-correct or shade-match our way out of oppressive beauty standards. The film forces us to confront the insidious nature of these standards and the self-destructive path they can lead us down. The Substance is more than just a horror film; it’s a potent commentary on the societal pressures that we all face, urging us to question our relationship with beauty and to embrace our natural selves.
