The Substance (2024)

In The Substance, the horror doesn’t lie in the grotesque body mutations or the exploding skin—it lies in a quiet lie whispered long before the blood begins to flow: "You are not enough." Elisabeth Sparkle, the aging TV icon at the center of the film, is still stunning by any honest standard. And yet she is discarded, belittled, made to feel grotesque—not by nature, but by a culture of leering men and invisible standards. The most disturbing special effect in the film isn’t the gore—it’s the way she looks into the mirror and sees a monster where there is only a woman.

The film’s conceit—that a person can split off a better version of themselves, a younger, prettier copy—is meant to satirize society’s obsession with youth and beauty. But its philosophical underpinning quickly falters. Elisabeth and her double, Sue, share no memories, no soul, no sense of self. They are, in essence, strangers—twins only in appearance. And yet the film insists they are “one person.” It’s a hollow claim, and perhaps that’s the point. The world has trained us to equate our image with our identity, as though the surface is all that matters. But that, too, is a lie. This sort of story is only possible in a world that already tries to claim that identity it malleable and “made-to-order.” However, that lie doesn’t hold up in the real world, let alone in a fiction. It defies any suspension of disbelief.

The tragedy, though, is not merely metaphysical. It is moral and emotional. Elisabeth is offered something most of us long for: the chance at simple, decent happiness—a life not measured by ratings or adoration, but by kindness and connection. But she cannot take it. The self-hatred drilled into her over years of objectification has done its job too well. The horror is not that she is rejected, but that she has learned to reject herself. As the story intensifies, it becomes a story of self-destruction and essentially, suicide.

As the film unravels into spectacle, the metaphor collapses. We’re left with chaos, carnage, and confusion—perhaps reflecting the inner unraveling that occurs when our worth is based solely on a lie. This is not merely a feminist critique or an industry satire—it is a parable of identity gone wrong.

Scripture tells a different story about our identity and our bodies. In Psalm 139, David praises God because “I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” In 1 Samuel, we are reminded that “the Lord does not see as man sees; man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” The world in The Substance has no room for such truths. It rewards the surface and punishes the soul. But the gospel offers a counter-narrative: that our value is not earned, not measured in desirability or relevance, but rooted in divine love.

Elisabeth believes she has to become someone else to be loved. The cross declares the opposite—that we are loved even in our most broken, aging, and unremarkable state. The tragedy of The Substance is not just the gore or the failed transformation. It’s that the main character is chasing a lie when she was already, in the eyes of God, enough.