Male Gaze and the Monstrous Pursuit of Perfection in Coralie Fargeat’s « The Substance » (2024)

Introduction 

The Substance (2024), written and directed by Coralie Fargeat, is a chilling exploration of society’s obsession with youth through body horror, a subgenre of horror fiction. The film follows Elisabeth Sparkle (Demi Moore), a once-coveted star discarded by her producer (Dennis Quaid) for aging out of Hollywood’s rigid beauty standards. Desperate for a second chance, she turns to an underground drug, the Substance, that brings into being a younger, idealized version of herself, named Sue (Margaret Qualley). This “better self” emerges from the user’s body, “the matrix”: the new version can’t survive on its own and relies on a special fluid, and on the matrix’s continued existence, to stay alive. The two selves must switch places every seven days in order to maintain balance; pushing the limits, like overstaying in one body or trying to create more versions, leads to rapid decay and grotesque mutations.

Much like Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890), which critiques the desire for eternal youth, The Substance explores the consequences of vanity and pursuit of beauty. While Dorian Gray transfers his corruption onto a painting to preserve his boyish good looks, Elisabeth resorts to an illegal drug to create a perfect version of herself. However, Elisabeth defies the drug’s rules, living as Sue far longer than allowed. In doing so, she essentially devours her former self, transforming into an unrecognizable, monstrous entity. 

This narrative aligns The Substance with the body horror genre, a form of horror cinema that focuses on the fragility and mutability of the human body. Xavier Aldana Reyes defines body horror as a subgenre that centers on “the inscription of horror onto the human body by virtue of a change” (Reyes, 2020, 393). These changes typically involve drastic alterations or harm being done to the characters’ physical forms. Common themes in body horror films include mutilation, hybridization, and metamorphosis. Through the lens of this subgenre, Fargeat does not merely critique society’s fixation on perfection, she drags it into the grotesque, forcing the viewer to confront the horrifying lengths people will go to in their pursuit of an unattainable ideal, and the monstrous extremes of vanity and self-indulgence.

In this article, we will explore the various themes present in The Substance, delving into its deeper commentary on the pressures placed on women. The film hinges around the concept of “the male gaze”, as theorized by Laura Mulvey, and examines how women are perceived, portrayed, and consumed in both the male-dominated film industry and society at large. We will also discuss body dysmorphia, a recurring motif that reflects the intense scrutiny and unrealistic beauty standards imposed on women, leading to a distorted self-image and a relentless pursuit of physical perfection. Finally, we will analyze whether Sue and Elisabeth’s final incarnation in the film is a form of emancipation from these unattainable beauty standards. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LNlrGhBpYjc

1. “She’s my most beautiful creation”: male gaze and objectification of female bodies

1.1 Laura Mulvey’s male gaze theory

The male gaze theory ((Mulvey defines the male gaze as scopophilia, a concept introduced by Freud in Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality (1905), which refers to the pleasure derived from looking, particularly in a sexual context. Although the concept of the male gaze was initially introduced in the context of cinema, its meaning has since expanded far beyond film. Today, it is primarily used in a broader societal context, encompassing more than just the depiction of women on screen. The term has gained significant traction, particularly in recent years, as it highlights how men often view women in ways that reinforce their own power while simultaneously objectifying and diminishing them. Nowadays, discussions around the male gaze frequently center on how women feel, navigate and resist its influence in everyday life (Dodd and Jackson, 2020).)), developed by feminist film theorist Laura Mulvey, offers a critical lens through which we can examine how women are often depicted as objects of desire in visual media, and shaped by the perspective of a male viewer:

In a world ordered by sexual imbalance, pleasure in looking has been split between active/male and passive/female. The determining male gaze projects its phantasy on to the female form which is styled accordingly. In their traditional exhibitionist role women are simultaneously looked at and displayed, with their appearance coded for strong visual and erotic impact so that they can be said to connote to-be-looked-at-ness. (Mulvey, 1999, 804).

This theory suggests that films tend to represent women through the eyes of male characters or male filmmakers, reinforcing patriarchal power dynamics (Dodd and Jackson, 2024, 45). A pivotal line that encapsulates the film’s exploration of the male gaze is Harvey’s remark about Sue: “She’s my most beautiful creation” [2:04:20]. This statement reveals his perception of women, not as individuals, but as objects to be shaped and admired, and reinforces his role as a modern-day Pygmalion. Harvey asserts this view openly and with pride, underlining the idea that her worth is tied to her appearance and male approval. Sue appears content with this role, showing little resistance as long as she receives validation.

In cinema, the male gaze often manifests as a voyeuristic gaze, where women are positioned as passive objects for the male viewer’s visual consumption: the camera is operated from a male perspective, objectifying women by emphasizing their physicality. This results in the viewer either identifying with the male protagonist or with the camera itself, reinforcing traditional gender roles and the dominance of the male perspective in visual culture. In this way, cinema perpetuates a system in which women are seen primarily as objects to be looked at, reducing their autonomy within the narrative (Mulvey, 1999, 804).

In The Substance, the primary female characters, Elisabeth and Sue, are portrayed in ways that reflect the male gaze theory as defined by Laura Mulvey. Both women are objectified in the sense that their worth and role in the story are determined largely by their appearance and their ability to satisfy the desires of male characters, most notably Harvey, and by extension, the implied male audience.

​Elisabeth’s metamorphosis in The Substance, whereby she becomes a younger, more desirable version of herself, is not merely a narrative device but a reflection on the industry’s tendency to reimagine female characters as objects designed to satisfy the male gaze. The film positions Elisabeth’s transformation as a direct response to male expectations and societal beauty standards, highlighting the immense pressure women face to conform to unrealistic ideals. ((The casting of Demi Moore deepens this critique, imbuing it with emotional weight and complexity. It adds an extra layer of meaning that challenges Hollywood’s obsessive drive for perfection and its tendency to cast aside women who do not conform to its rigid ideals. Just as her character disappears, Moore herself had faded from the public eye, her career becoming a symbol of Hollywood’s harsh, unforgiving beauty standards.)) This mirrors broader media trends, where aging actresses often undergo physical alterations to continue to fit the set requirements/to fit the mold that industry has put/to fit the standardsmaintain relevance, underscoring the industry’s emphasis on appearance over substance​ (Marcus, 2024).

Sue, Elisabeth’s younger doppelgänger, is overtly eroticized for the male gaze. From the outset, she is depicted as a quintessential, doe-eyed bombshell, whose primary concern is her appearance and how she is perceived by men. In the context of the industry she inhabits, her value is intrinsically tied to her physical beauty. For instance, the “Pump it up” sequence, where we can see Sue leading an exercise routine for her fitness show, reduces the character to an object of desire and fantasy. In her gleaming pink leotard, Sue’s aerobics program is overtly sexualized: the camerawork focuses intently on Sue’s glossy lips, her breasts and buttocks, and her exaggerated gestures toward the audience, drawing the viewer into the collective gaze that objectifies her as mere “fresh meat”. The close-ups, exploitative angles and lingering, predatory camera movements satirize the longstanding male-centric media’s objectification of women.

1.2. A Distorted Gaze: Fargeat’s critique of cinematic objectification in The Substance

Fargeat’s approach aims to provoke discomfort and even revulsion, turning the male gaze into a self-mocking parody. By compelling the audience to endure this exaggerated spectacle, Fargeat deconstructs the seductive allure of traditional objectification, exposing the insidious nature that lurks beneath its glossy exterior (Kain, 2025). As a viewer, particularly in today’s cultural landscape, we are either totally repulsed by this succession of over-exaggerated, clearly male gaze-driven sequences or we recognize them as satire.

The Substance therefore denounces the male gaze that pervades a mainly male-dominated film industry: Harvey, Elisabeth’s sleazy network boss, is an unmistakable reference to Harvey Weinstein, whose abusive legacy casts a long shadow over the industry. Fargeat and cinematographer Benjamin Kracun use their camera to make a broader commentary on male behavior, as seen in a scene where Elisabeth has a lunch meeting with Harvey. The camera zooms in with an extreme close-up on Harvey’s wrinkled mouth as he devours a handful of prawns, tearing into their tender flesh with a sinister grin. This shot feels like a metaphor: Harvey embodies Hollywood, and the plump, pink prawns symbolize aspiring starlets, ready to be consumed. The film’s aesthetic excesses act as a crucial analysis and overview of cinema’s objectification of female bodies. By pushing the male gaze to its grotesque extremes, Fargeat underscores how these representations dehumanize women, compelling the audience to confront this objectification directly.​​​​

This thematic critique seamlessly carries over into the film’s visual language, where Fargeat turns stylistic repetition into a sharp commentary on performance and commodification. To complete the metaphor, Fargeat revisits the same style of shots when, after the recording ends, Sue cracks open an ice-cold Diet Coke. The moment, with its polished lighting and classic framing, mimics the glossy aesthetics of mid-century television commercials. It’s almost flawless, so much so that, if not for the heavy layer of sarcasm, it could be mistaken for genuine product placement. This parody of style collapses the boundary between performance and reality, blurring Sue’s on-screen persona with her supposed private life. The implication is sharp: in a culture where the female body is relentlessly commodified, even the act of taking a break becomes a performance. In today’s commercialized world, Sue’s body does not just serve the narrative, it is the product. The Diet Coke moment is not a mere parody advertizing trope; it reveals how women’s identities are molded and consumed in the same way as brands: polished, palatable, and ultimately hollow.

2. “Everything is in the right place”: body dysmorphia

2.1. The internalization of the male gaze

The Substance is deeply fixated on the female body, and it establishes this theme right from the start. The film opens with Elisabeth leading a choreographed aerobics routine, dressed in a Jane Fonda-esque leotard, perfectly in sync with her backup dancers. As she walks through a hallway, the walls are lined with large framed images of herself, each showcasing her body in the same form-fitting attire, only in different colors and styles. This visual repetition reinforces the film’s exploration of narcissism and obsession with physical appearance. At first glance, these images may seem like milestones marking different stages of Elisabeth’s career, but they all revolve around one thing: her body. Throughout the film, The Substance delves into the intricate, often destructive relationship between self-image and public image, blurring the line between admiration and despair.

This commodification of the female body reaches its psychological apex in the film’s exploration of body dysmorphia. Having shown how the female form is molded to meet marketable ideals, Fargeat now interrogates how these ideals are internalized, turning the external pressures of the male gaze into a deeply personal, and often destructive obsession. Body dysmorphia, defined as a mental health disorder characterized by obsessive focus on perceived flaws in physical appearance, emerges in the film as a direct consequence of prolonged exposure to objectifying standards. This phenomenon is not merely a psychological affliction, but a cultural condition bred by the persistent scrutiny of women’s bodies.

A particularly illustrative scene occurs during Sue’s audition to replace Elisabeth Sparkle. The setting is a large, minimally furnished dark room, where two middle-aged men are seated at a casting table. Prior to Sue’s entrance, another woman auditions. As she exits, one of the men remarks, “Great dancer, too bad her boobs aren’t in the middle of that face instead of that nose” (37:14). This comment dismisses the performer’s talent, reducing her value to narrowly defined physical criteria. When Sue enters, the same man states, “Looks like everything sure is in the right place this time” (37:36). The camera then circles around Sue in a slow, deliberate motion, zooming in on her legs, buttocks, breasts, and lips, features that are explicitly presented as meeting the standard of desirability. This visual emphasis reinforces a male-dominated perspective in which women’s bodies are scrutinized and appraised according to arbitrary standards. The men in the scene serve as gatekeepers of this definition of “perfection” positioning themselves as the ultimate arbiters of which bodies are worthy of attention and approval.

This treatment of Sue’s audition exemplifies a broader theme in the film, one that critiques how the male gaze is internalized by women and shapes their perception of themselves. According to the director of The Substance, the idea was to present two distinct perspectives on Elisabeth Sparkle. In the outside world, she is hypersexualized, dissected, and scrutinized through the male gaze, both by the male characters in the film and through the camera work and visual style. Inside the apartment, however, the female characters are confronted by their own gaze, one deeply shaped by the ever-present male gaze they endure in daily life. Even in solitude, they cannot escape it. They turn it inward, leading to self-torment and self-destruction (Babiolakis, 2024.)

The film seems to imply that women in showbusiness, like Elisabeth, willingly choose to objectify themselves: Elisabeth submits to the male gaze in an attempt to fulfill her own desires of fame and wealth. When producer Harvey (Dennis Quaid) ends their contract due to the public’s preference for younger faces, and Elisabeth’s endorsements are taken down, it marks a major career setback (Horton, 2024). Faced with a world that equates worth with youth and beauty, Elisabeth turns to the only solution that seems available: to conform to those impossible standards by becoming younger and more desirable. However, the real issue lies not in Elisabeth’s personal choice, but in the patriarchal system that conditions her to see herself as obsolete. Her immediate and unquestioning acceptance of Harvey’s judgment, that she is too old and unattractive, is not a failure of character, but the result of an industry and a culture that systematically erase aging women.

2.2. Scene analysis: beauty standards and the mirror as a battleground

This internalized gaze is most vividly depicted in Elisabeth’s bathroom, where the film shows the most nudity, not in a sexualized manner, but rather stripped of any external gaze. Director Coralie Fargeat described this space as “womb-like” (Leroy, Reitzer, 2024), a place of transformation, where Elisabeth transitions into Sue. It is a space that reflects our relationship with ourselves, where the self-gaze becomes most intense and revealing. It is the only space in the film where things are not polished, where a raw sense of reality breaks through.

In the mirror scene, we see Elisabeth preparing for a date with a kind former classmate, someone who briefly gives her hope. She puts on makeup, checks in the mirror that her outfit is flattering, then leaves the bathroom. She passes by Sue’s inanimate body and pauses, silently comparing. Then, back at the mirror, she adds more makeup. As she grabs her keys, she sees Sue again, this time in the giant billboard outside her apartment. Again, she stops and returns to the mirror, now visibly more insecure. She adds even more makeup, drapes a scarf around her neck and décolletage, covering what she now perceives as flaws. Her face, once composed, begins to sag under the weight of performance. The final blow comes as she reaches for the door and sees her distorted reflection in the doorknob. This grotesque, funhouse version of herself mirrors her crumbling sense of identity and hints to monstrous merging of Elisabeth and Sue in the final act of the film. She rushes back to the bathroom one last time. What follows is no longer about self-enhancement, it is a breakdown. This time, instead of adding makeup, she starts removing it, furiously. Her face turns red and raw as she scrubs, as if trying to erase not just the makeup, but herself. She does not make it to the date. She cannot. The emotional toll is too great.

This scene distills the emotional impact of unrealistic beauty standards on women: it captures the way self-doubt creeps in during what should be a simple act, getting ready to go out. It is not about vanity, but a result of constant comparison to others who fit the mold of “beauty”. Elisabeth compares herself to Sue, a younger and more beautiful version of herself. She is also comparing herself to her younger self, forever immortalized in movies, TV, aerobics videos, and the massive portrait hanging in her living room. On top of that, she is haunted by Sue’s billboard looming outside her window, a constant reminder of what she is supposed to look like to stay desirable and relevant in the entertainment industry. The scene evokes the haunting imagery of the Joker, particularly in the way lipstick becomes a distorted symbol of identity, no longer a tool of allure, but a smeared mask of inner chaos. Like the Joker, Elisabeth’s painted face becomes a paradox: both a cry for help and a performance of control. But unlike the Joker’s calculated nihilism, Elisabeth’s gesture carries no malice, only grief, longing, and a flickering need to still matter.

In a movie filled with outrageous visuals and gut-wrenching body horror, this understated scene becomes the most terrifying because of its relatability. While we somewhat understand what Elisabeth Sparkle goes through, her life feels out of touch and hard to connect with. She comes across as a caricature of the classic fallen Hollywood star. But this scene brings her closer to the audience, we finally see the woman behind the archetype. We see Elisabeth at her most vulnerable. Demi Moore has talked about how difficult it was to film this specific scene for the movie: “It’s one of the most heart-wrenching moments in the film”, she told Variety. “I think we can all relate to trying to make ourselves look better, and just making it worse and worse. The idea of looking at yourself in the mirror and seeing only what’s wrong, it’s like you’re seeking to make yourself uglier, so you can look how you feel”, she added (Donnely, 2024).

For those struggling with body image, this scene might resonate in a visceral way and the fact that this is nestled in an exaggerated, satirical body horror just makes it stand out even more. The horror here does not rely on gore or shock, it is the fear of not being enough, of never matching up, and of losing yourself in the process of trying. Elisabeth’s frenzied attempt to scrub herself away is the first step in her unraveling, signaling the beginning of her metamorphosis. Her identity fractures as she tries to reconcile the impossibility of becoming both who she was and who she is expected to be. The mirror, once a tool of self-surveillance, becomes a portal to something far darker: the monstrous. What begins as a deeply personal crisis of self-image escalates into a full-body horror manifestation. In the third act, this internal struggle erupts into physical form with the creation of Monstro Elisasue, a grotesque embodiment of beauty standards pushed to their breaking point. Her transformation is not just horrific, it is symbolic: a violent externalization of every cut, comparison, and contradiction Elisabeth has endured. The question then becomes, can monstrosity be a form of liberation?

3. The monstrous as a form of emancipation?

3.1. Monstro Elisasue

In The Substance, Fargeat uses the framework of body horror to expose and exaggerate the violent consequences of the male gaze. In the third act of the film, Elisabeth’s and Sue’s bodies merge into a grotesque, monstrous entity named Elisasue, a direct result of Sue’s reckless re-administration and misuse of the Substance. The creature emerges as a distorted amalgamation of body parts, with limbs and faces jutting out in unnatural places. Director Coralie Fargeat described its design as a “Picasso idea” (Butcher, 2024) emphasizing a chaotic reimagining of the human form. Elisasue’s appearance seems to draw inspiration from David Lynch’s The Elephant Man (1980), but with a strikingly different message. The Elephant Man tells the story of a man who looks monstrous but possesses a human soul, while The Substance suggests that beautiful women can morph into terrifying monsters, whose deformed bodies reflect the pressure and damage caused by being watched, judged, and defined by others.

Elisasue is therefore shaped by what the male gaze both demands and destroys. This transformation highlights Elisabeth’s inner turmoil caused by constant objectification. Under the male gaze, aging women like Elisabeth are viewed as monstrous because they lose their sexual allure. Once a woman can no longer be objectified, patriarchal culture marks her as a monster. The film seems to suggest that, when confronted with the male gaze, women have only two choices: submission or monstrosity as a form of emancipation.

In the final sequence of the film, Sue is invited to host a New Year’s Eve show. Having become Monstro Elisasue, the new monstrous entity takes the stage wearing a paper mask, cut from the portrait of Elisabeth we have seen throughout the whole movie in the background: as her mask slips off, it reveals a breast growing from her eye, and the creature wreaks havoc in the audience, spraying blood before eventually melting away in the streets. This scene, reminiscent of the tragic prom at the end of Brian De Palma’s Carrie (1976), could be seen as a form of revenge or as a way to subvert the sexualization of women through the grotesque representation of the female body. However, the underlying question remains: do women have to become monsters or non-human entities to resist the male gaze?

When Elisasue’s mask slips, the audience is initially confused and disgusted, but the majority are horrified, screaming at the sight of the monstrous creature before them. Even in her new form, Elisasue still seeks validation from the audience: she cries out “It’s me!” (2:08:25) as a de-bodied breast slips from one of her mouths. However, the crowd turns on her, yelling “freak” and attacking her. Various parts of her form are hacked off, blood gushing in a comedic spray that drenches the audience. As the people try to kill her, even decapitating her, she regenerates into a shapeless mass of flesh, and escapes the studio, making her way to the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Unlike Carrie, where the violence leads to a clear sense of catharsis through revenge, The Substance takes a different route. When Monstro Elisasue emerges, the crowd does not face punishment, they react with fear, disgust, and rejection; instead of being victims, they remain part of the problem. Their horror is not just at what they see, but at what they helped create. The blood that soaks them does not serve as justice, it exposes their role in shaping and demanding impossible beauty standards. Rather than condemning the monstrous figure, the film turns the mirror on the audience, showing how their obsession with perfection helped produce it in the first place.

3.2. A sense of entrapment and foreboding

The emergence of Monstro Elisasue is not just the climax of body horror, but the grotesque embodiment of a pressure that has been building from the very beginning, a pressure rooted in Elisabeth’s growing sense of entrapment. The physical monstrosity reflects a deeper psychological imprisonment, where every surface, stage, and interaction becomes part of a suffocating performance she cannot escape.

One of the central themes that runs through The Substance is a pervasive sense of entrapment and creeping dread, both physical and psychological. From the very beginning, the film establishes a claustrophobic atmosphere where reality feels subtly off, and the walls, both literal and metaphorical, begin to close in around Elisabeth Sparkle. This is not conveyed through her internal unraveling, but through the visual language of the film itself: artificial lighting, distorted proportions, sterile environments, and surreal continuity between spaces blur the boundaries between performance and real life. Elisabeth appears trapped in a world that never lets her step off stage, even in private moments. This haunting sense of confinement is echoed in small, symbolic moments throughout the film, foreshadowing the ending and Elisabeth’s ultimate submission to the standards that destroyed her. 

This fly scene is one of the powerful and symbolic moments that foreshadows Elisabeth’s fate and the monstrous transformation to come. During a tense conversation where Harvey tells Elisabeth she is no longer fit to be the star of the TV show, essentially firing her, a fly lands on his neck. This subtle detail introduces the themes of decay and loss. By the end of their talk, the fly is shown trapped in a glass of wine, and Elisabeth stares at it intensely. The camera then zooms in closely, almost microscopically, on the fly, evoking the disturbing imagery from David Cronenberg’s The Fly (1986), where extreme close-ups reveal a monster. This microscopic view represents two things: first, Elisabeth’s own sense of drowning as she loses her career and the validation tied to her public image, she is the fly, helpless and sinking. Second, it hints at the monstrous side of her that will later emerge. Just as a fly looks ordinary from a distance but terrifying up close, Elisabeth’s polished exterior hides something grotesque, foreshadowing the emergence of Elisasue.

This sense of entrapment is also played into the aesthetics of the movie: The Substance begins under the artificial light of a stage, and we know immediately that Elisabeth Sparkle is on a TV set not just because of the cameras but because the lighting is unnaturally bright. There are no windows to the outside world and the proportions of the room feel faintly distorted, everything around her has a flat and unrealistic kind of polish. When she finishes the episode, she exits the studio into an abnormally long hallway; the artificiality persists all the way into her home, where another dark and long hallway awaits her. The apartment becomes the backdrop for Sparkle’s inner turmoil and transformation. Its vast, showroom-like living room reflects her deep disconnection from others and her hollow inner life. Devoid of personal touches like photos or books, the space is dominated by a life-size photo of Sparkle in a blue leotard, a symbol of her only real bond: the one with her former self. It is as if she never left the TV set, as if she were always trapped inside the performance, even in the comfort of her own home.

The Substance’s cyclical structure reinforces the sense of Elisabeth’s entrapment. The film’s opening scene features the installation of her Hollywood star. At first, we see her standing proudly atop it, surrounded by flashing cameras and swarming paparazzi. Later, a group of admiring tourists gathers around, taking pictures of the star and posing beside it. As time passes, the star endures the changing seasons, autumn leaves drift over it, rain soaks it, and snow blankets it. With each passing year, it loses its shine, becoming dull and cracked. Fewer and fewer people stop to admire it. Eventually, it goes unnoticed, trampled under indifferent feet. In the final moment, a passerby accidentally drops his burger on the star, ketchup splattering across its surface. He halfheartedly attempts to wipe it away before sighing and walking off, foreshadowing the bloodshed that will unfold later in the film.

Figure 5. Elizabeth Sparkle's Hollywood Walk of Fame Star scenes, The Substance (2024)

This sequence serves as a powerful metaphor for Elisabeth’s journey. She begins her career radiant and adored, much like the newly polished star. As the years go by, age and time take their toll, her beauty fades (mirrored by the star’s cracks), and the public loses interest (reflected in the indifferent passersby). In the final moments of the film, Elisabeth, or what remains of her, lies over her Hollywood star, covered in blood. She stares up at the night sky, a smile on her face, as memories of her legacy, fame, and the love she once had flash through her mind. Slowly, she fades away, reduced to nothing more than a bloodstain. In the end, a street cleaner arrives, sweeping away the last remnants of her existence, erasing her from the world just as time erased her from the public’s memory.

In those final moments of The Substance, Elisabeth is not defiantly reclaiming space with bravado. She is not confronting the world with a monster’s grin, she is pleading, crying out from beneath the layers of horror that have been forced upon her. And yet, there is something powerful in that desperation. Because despite everything, despite being erased, reshaped, discarded, Elisabeth is still trying to hold on to some piece of herself. She is not liberated. But she is not entirely gone either. So, is the monstrous a form of emancipation? Not in the sense of freedom or power. It is a form of exposure. A laying bare of everything that was done to her. A scream from inside the cage, not a key to unlock it. But in that scream, in that pain, we do see a flicker of humanity, the soul that refuses to disappear. And maybe that is not emancipation, but it is still a kind of truth. A terrible, beautiful truth that refuses to be ignored.

Conclusion

The Substance explores how society remains fixated on the idea that a woman’s appearance and sexual allure define her worth. The film suggests that this mindset is so deeply embedded in cultural norms that women internalize it, finding themselves trapped within the logic of the male gaze, valued primarily for their desirability and discarded once they no longer meet those standards. This dynamic drives the film’s central tragedy: Elisabeth’s body becomes the battleground for a culture that worships youth and beauty while punishing age and decay. Her monstrous transformation is not a liberation, but the horrifying consequence of a system that dehumanizes women by reducing them to images, then replacing them when those images crack.

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Reda Boulkhiam, Male Gaze and the Monstrous Pursuit of Perfection in Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance (2024), La Clé des Langues [en ligne], Lyon, ENS de LYON/DGESCO (ISSN 2107-7029), septembre 2025. Consulté le 10/09/2025. URL: https://cle.ens-lyon.fr/anglais/arts/cinema/male-gaze-and-the-monstrous-pursuit-perfection-in-caroline-fargeat-s-the-substance