I recently had a day off for a holiday and felt like something modern and this had made its way into the cheap rental section on Amazon so, even though everyone said it was as gross as they get, I was curious and wanted to get in on the fun and honestly it wasn’t too bad even for a guy that doesn’t like body horror that much. Sure there was a bunch of squish and ick and fingernails coming off and infected pustules but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be and the movie was pretty good all the way around except for maybe the last 30 minutes I didn’t think were necessary but I didn’t make the movie and no one asked me so fair is fair. One thing that also bothered me probably more than anything because it’s how my brains work and maybe no one else will get this but every time Demi Moore was there all I could see was Courtney Cox and I kept getting confused I mean not confused like stick my fingers in my lips and run them up and down like some dip shit but I was having trouble separating the two faces and there was some scrambling inside about why was the lady from Friends and that other show where they drank wine all day in this and now she’s all the way naked I thought wait no wait what no it’s Demi Moore that’s right ok. Other than mild misperception and some unnecessary toxic avenger style exploits at the end I thought this was pretty good and probably a lot better than a lot of the shit I watch out here.

I’m not one of those super smart writers about movies that likes to interpret and dissect things into meaningful parts or translate the images to feelings so while I know this is a work that has to do with objectifying women in the entertainment industry and how that industry discards the old for the new without giving one shit about accomplishments and just living in some sort of vogue for youth and impermanence, I don’t feel like that’s something I can dwell on. While I don’t go around objectifying and ogling women because believe it or not I’m a gentleman, seeing Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley in their various forms of undress or aerobics outfits was pleasing to me and maybe a little distracting on some occasions. So instead if me talking and acting like someone I’m not, let’s see what kind of picture Steve can come up with for “The Substance, chiaroscuro” and I’ll try and interpret that instead:

Look at the the subtle yet stark dichromatic combat between dark and light, flowing over what we perceive as glass, perhaps stored inside a cold chamber, while the essence of a mid afternoon sun on a winter’s day teases itself to the frozen captive, through a window, just out of reach. The prisoner laments its fate, held motionless and distressed, longing for the feel of earth’s gift flowing over it in crescendos of breezy end. Or is the bottle our champion? Defiant against the harsh elements, taunting the panes of glass, teasing its gift, “You shall never touch the substance I hold within!” It cries, its hypothetical fist in the air, commanding its troops! “Stand firm on the front, boys, this will be another long and hard theater!” We can see a mustached lip snarling in defense, a grizzled hand with white knuckles clenched around a rusted sword, a chest pinned with glorious medals. “Stand firm! Be defiant! Forever vigilant!” The cries repeated over and over.

Or:

“The Substance, Victorian”:

A man waddles into a room. He is corpulent and his jowls hang low, hardly concealing a foul stink, nature’s gangrenous flap so to speak. He coughs and uses his kerchief to wipe yellowish mucus from his lips. He is disgusting, but he is an Englishman and he is proud of himself. He makes it to a sitting chair and squats, befouling himself and the fabrics some poor, legless child weaved together in one of his factories. “Aaaaahhhh cough” he hacks and smiles, ringing the bell for someone to come running to clean his soiled buttocks and rinse out his hoses.

As he waits, turning a pence over in his brown fingers, a voice comes to him from somewhere unknown. “Penningtonsmythe!” It address him, “Penningtonsmythe you wretched cretin. Have a look at yourself. You embarrass The Crown, you bring decline in Dignity to The Realm. You have entertained Filth and you are effluvient. You have one choice, partake of the substance en route to your chamber and become a Beacon of Pride your King can glorify, or refuse the substance and remain as you are, a dismal, pulsing boil on His Majesty’s Kingdom, doomed to perish in putrescence leaving your immense wealth to be dispersed among the nobles. You will be remembered as a pioneer in the glories of Impoverished Labor or you can begin anew in Shining Servitude to your Majesty. The choice is yours. Choose wisely.”

There is a feeble knock at the door. The man’s bowels run free again. The room is quickly yellowed in a fog of disease and toxins. The chambermaid bravely enters, trained to ignore things as all English do. She carries a tray. On the tray is an egg cup filled with some sort of slime. His rheumatic eyes focus as best they can. He squints! The chambermaid’s lips quiver! Her hands tremble! He

“The Substance, baroque”

A harpsichord twinkles as she glides down her hallway, the walls covered with artwork of all sizes, seemingly unbelievably large to modern people living in modest houses. One painting seems to cover an entire battlefield, littered with hundreds of life size bodies of the slain indigents of a conquered territory, the battle majors triumphant upon their fleet of horses, their troops adorned in shining brasses and golds, mostly untouched after shooting everyone from a distance. That fucking painting must be 100 feet long for god’s sake. Or is it meters? “100 meters long if it’s a farthing!” Shouts someone from the crowd. Jesus who had time to paint that. And what was the source of the models. “Move along, son!” Pips another audience displeased at Eric Undead’s dallying. “I need to get home and Roger someone!” The audience titters and huffs. Sigh.

Her glide begins to slow, her décolletage heaving in the light from the 300 meter long window. She used to skip through these halls as a young lady, her feet as light as the British air, her servants chasing after her trying to ensure the commoners won’t bare witness to a frivolous child behaving in fun. She fans her neck. Her bosoms.

“My bosoms,” she reflects in melancholy, “ were once admired by lords and dukes and earls and all manner of nobility.” She wipes away a tear, running an arm under her chest. “My riches for a chance to be so sought after again!!” The harpsichord trills in a maddening climax of ear splitting tenor! Birds scatter from trees! The game eludes the fox!

She glances to her left, an ENORMOUS painting of her has appeared in the wall, somehow displacing the myriad of other works of hens and dogs playing poker. “My!” She flusters, her breath a-titter. A drawer, somehow hidden from her for decades, slides open from the wall beneath. Inside of it is one of those pretentious gravy boats that would probably quote for thousands of dollars on an episode of Antiques Roadshow. Inside of the vessel is a greenish, sparkling slime, a substance, and it stinks of the servant’s quarters. “My!” She sniffs, her nose crinkling in disgust. “Fingersbottom needs his monthly wash.” Besides the dish is a note. She unfurls it.

It reads: Taketh of this elixir and thou shall regain thine beauty from thy youth. Deny this substance and thou shall continue to ageth in mortal’s fashion attractive to only the King’s Royal Naval Fleet.”

Something in her stirs. She looks at the camera “the entire fleet??” she murmurs. Something else inside her stirs – something forbidden. She reaches for the container. She

But seriously this movie wasn’t too bad and not as gross as I had feared.

FILED UNDER: MARGARET QUALLEY AND SLIME AND THE KINGS NAVY AND A GIANT SQUID AND THE VERY END OF THIS REMINDED ME OF THIS MOVIE I HATED CALLED CONFESSIONS OF A TEENAGE PLACENTA