To unpack the (inevitably) reductive comparison, The Substance features spaces reminiscent of Kubrick, body horror that would make Cronenberg (both David and Brandon) weep, mind-fuckery at least on a par with “Requiem for a Dream” or “mother!,” and an aggressive, confrontational and mesmerizing style akin to that of “Irréversible” and “Climax.” The Substance could be regarded as “Fight Club” for women, due to its focus on the body, social expectations and identity. It also works as “Sunset Boulevard” for a new generation, as it deals with issues of aging and stardom, is set in Hollywood, and focuses upon a star past a certain age. This star is Elisabeth Sparkle, played by a never-better Demi Moore (“Corporate Animals”). After an initial close-up of egg yolks receiving an injection, we are treated to a prolonged overhead shot of Elisabeth’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, from its initial laying to the path of her career, which plays out on the star. From premieres to foot passage to street cleaning to the dropping of garbage, and some significant cracks, the star sees so much, as does the actual Elisabeth. Past her movie star days and now the lead of a TV exercise show, Elisabeth is informed by producer Harvey (a magnificently obnoxious Dennis Quaid, “The Intruder”) that the network wants someone younger. Initially distraught and feeling understandably rejected, Elisabeth then discovers a new (you guessed it) substance that will turn things around.

To give more details would be to spoil the film, for The Substance is a film where the viewer benefits from knowing as little as possible. Suffice to say that the eponymous product provides Elisabeth and the viewer with far more than they bargained for. The UK premiere of The Substance took place at FrightFest 2024, to an audience of hardened (or jaded) horror film fans. The atmosphere during the screening was one of shock, elation and bewilderment, with discussions afterwards largely related to WTF?! At two hours and twenty minutes, the film could run the risk of overstaying its welcome, but Fargeat’s pacing is superbly linked to the threads of investigation and discovery, success and ambition, desperation and hubris. Much of the film takes place indoors, especially in Elisabeth’s grand apartment. The expansive living room, dominated by a portrait of Elisabeth in her prime (consider that term critically), as well as the inner sanctum of an impeccably white-tiled bathroom, is meticulously designed by Stanislas Reydellet to express wealth and privilege, as well as isolation, security and even secrecy, all of which escalate within the plot of Elisabeth’s troubles.

Escalation is also expressed by the bodies of the film. Moore (at the age of 62) reveals all in a way that is refreshing and encouraging. Too often female bodies are objectified in cinema, both as objects of desire and, for those deemed to be “past it,” of ridicule and even disgust. To see the naked body of a woman over 40, let alone over 60, on screen is a rare sight indeed. For this body to treated sympathetically is even rarer. It would be overly simplistic to say that the film presents the bodies of Demi Moore, as well as Margaret Qualley (“The Vanishing of Sidney Hall”) who also bares all, sympathetically simply because the director is a woman. More significantly, the gaze of the film is that of Elisabeth herself, appearing on screen when the character herself inspects it. Therefore, we are invited to share her feelings about the way she looks, while the film also mediates these feelings through a lens that is critical not of Elisabeth herself, but of the context in which her body and identity have developed, a context encapsulated by that stunning opening. Elisabeth is presented as a participant, a beneficiary, a product, and a victim of Hollywood specifically and western patriarchal capitalism more generally, valued and judged because of her adherence to expectations. The film consistently and mercilessly satirizes these expectations, with moments of recognition, non-recognition, behavioral alignment, types of imaging, different levels of consumption and the use of substances all brought together in a gloriously grotesque grand guignol. There are moments in The Substance that may cause jaws to drop and eyes to pop, as the instances of body horror are pushed far beyond expectations or even hopes and fears. Just when you think “OK, that’s the limit,” Fargeat pushes the sequence (and physicality) that little bit further.

Intertwined with this grotesquerie is jet black humor, Fargeat and her cast willing to be utterly absurd as well as commendably revolting. It could be said that this is a form of misogyny, because the aging woman’s body is presented as repulsive, but notably the body horror is closely tied to the titular substance, a product that serves wider misogyny. Thus, the film becomes a treatise on the abuse of women’s bodies, abuse that is a manifestation of patriarchal demands. Much like (arguably) Lars Von Triers’ “Antichrist” and “The House That Jack Built,” The Substance presents misogyny, rather than endorsing it.

The cast are wonderfully game for this madcap journey. As mentioned, Moore is at her absolute peak, conveying regret, ambition, self-loathing, desperation and a deep melancholia. Quaid is an absolute hoot, making himself as thoroughly punchable as his character’s namesake suggests. Margaret Qualley presents a youthful version of ambition, no less ruthless and even vicious. These three, especially Moore and Qualley, dominate the proceedings, with other figures only appearing briefly. This further helps in keeping the viewer engaged with Elisabeth, as we see and share her experiences through elaborate spaces, pained bodies, fragmenting minds and breathtaking style. Also, as previously stated, The Substance echoes various other films and directors, but when it comes to pushing your conceit to its extremes in a way that is engaging, entertaining, shocking and ingenious all at once, Coralie Fargeat could teach many filmmakers a thing or two.

While the movie starts off with an engagingly familiar hook — take lonely girls: Emma (Bethlehem Million, “Throuple”), Julia (Alex Essoe, “Death of Me”), Harriet (Ally Ioannides, “Jesus Revolution”), Lex (Juliette Kenn De Balinthazy) and Dusty (Bex Taylor-Klaus, “Blackbird”), isolate them and put them at the mercy of a cult-like family — it never truly forms into something more than its collective parts. Worse, these collective parts move at a glacial pace, inching forward for a payoff that only shows its hand late into the film’s 100-minute runtime. Patience, apparently, is key in this mostly shallow, slow-moving venture.

The thin layer of suspense, concocted by a quintet of mostly first time screenwriters (Ariel Vida, Cullen Poythress, David Blair, Megan Sutherland and Sean E. DeMott), is one that any horror movie lover can see through long before the gotcha is revealed. This is especially true since the owner of the weed farm, Mona (Jane Badler, “The Lies We Tell Ourselves”), is instantly recognizable as someone hiding a lot of secrets. But without going into spoilers I will say the reveal is executed well enough and that weed does thankfully play a large role in the overall narrative, just it’s much more of the chill strain than I think people would anticipate.

Because of the first half’s aggressively slow exposition, viewers are left to idly sit by and watch the paper-thin and equally motivated characters “grow” to know one another better. Emma, our main protagonist, is most skeptical of this obviously sketchy job but outside of that, she is hardly differentiated from the rest of the group which includes a non-binary character for the sake of having a non-binary character. Without a solid character arc throughout the story, we are stuck with one-note characters that would rarely make it past the first draft stage of a screenplay.

Putting the slow start and nondescript characters to the side, once the gore does finally start flowing, it’s extremely chunky and visceral. Some spooky lighting design also enhances the blood bath, making what we so long waited for that much more pleasing. For “stoner horror” (is this a horror subgenre?), it’s got some great weed motifs, but it takes much longer than it should to get to most of them. If you’re planning on lighting up before the film I recommend going easy as you might pass out long before the movie gets good.

The film is loosely based on the novel of the same name — a long, complex work of fiction that Chase Palmer, David Matthews, and Sergio de la Palma (the author of the novel upon which the movie is based) attempt to modify and adapt for the screen. It’s a valiant attempt, but squeezing a long, complex novel into a straightforward narrative film means getting rid of a lot of the context, and most viewers will be wondering where and when the film will break out of its genre conventions. John Boyega (“Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker”) displays the requisite futility of someone caught in a dead-end job (both literally and figuratively), but it’s not enough to form a nucleus for a story. It could be that he is the moral conscience of the mysterious impenetrable universe of a dysfunctional justice system, and hence makes it visible. But it’s not a major revelation. His obstacles are typical of those one would find in a job as a hapless public defender. We don’t really need him to reveal them.

So, what does this bit of theoretical physics used as the film’s title have to do with our frustrated P.D. (public defender)? John Boyega does his best to portray a disillusioned young lawyer up against a cold-hearted legal system — disinterested judges, sardonic prosecutors, confused defendants. However, the film never breaks out of the conventions of its plot line. You’ve seen the story before: On TV shows, feature films, documentary exposés. Naked Singularity doesn’t add much to the genre. Its story moves too slowly, and the characters are too wan. By the time the plot thickens, it’s almost too late to hold the viewer’s interest.

If you’ve seen episodes of “Law and Order,” or any number of Sidney Lumet features, you will probably recognize the film’s setting: Downtown New York City, where the stark municipal buildings are located. We’ve seen the seedy bars before, and the downscale New York City apartments that low-salaried public servants are able to afford. A brief look at the film’s credits will clue you in to the fact Dick Wolf, the creator of “Law and Order,” is the producer, so the set up and theme of the film shouldn’t come as a surprise.

This isn’t to say the film goes nowhere. Casi (the word means “almost” in Spanish), nearly devolves into another human molecule in the criminal justice universe until he has the opportunity to strike it rich financially with the simple philosophy of “If you can’t beat them, join them.” But the film’s set up — driven by several numbing courtroom scenes between Casi and a heartless “can’t wait for retirement” judge (Linda Lavin, “How to Be a Latin Lover”) isn’t enough to carry the set up for Casi’s descent into the criminal maelstrom.

The film does hold some promise of a “fight the machine” showdown, but it’s obvious the machine will win out. It always does, after all. Olivia Cooke (“Little Fish”) plays an equally sardonic Lea, a municipal worker who throws a carrot into the P.D.’s world and an even more sketchy crook, her partner in crime, a drug dealer named Craig (Ed Skrein, “If Beale Street Could Talk”), both of whom are looking for an inside man to pull off a heist. They both find a perfect candidate in Casi, or rather they think they do.

There is also an ongoing subplot involving the P.D. and a science-obsessed neighbor named Angus (Tim Blake Nelson, “The Vanishing of Sidney Hall”). Angus serves to put some meat on the theoretical concept of naked singularity in an effort to flesh out the story in order to provide some symbolic weight to complement the action. Unfortunately, what is a promising addition to the storyline never gets woven into the main narrative thrust. Naked Singularity bravely tries to mix genres — giving the finger to a corrupt system, taking a quantum leap to free oneself from a doomed career choice, and tying them both to cosmic, science-fiction themes. But there’s just too much to cover in a standard-length feature film. Perhaps a film of epic proportions could handle the theme more competently. To sum up the problem with the film in literary terms, Naked Singularity evolves into a short story from James Joyce’s “Dubliners” when its complex issues would be better served by that same author’s “Ulysses.”

After a laughable opening credits sequence (the kind that makes you wanna scream “we get it” from the rooftops), we meet Damon (Freeman, “Going in Style”), a former cop now wheelchair-bound crime boss, recounting his sins in the most Party City looking of churches. What is Damon saying to his fellow religious leader friend? Who knows, because the scene — like much the rest of this movie — is barely audible (since every actor seems to have been directed to speak in a mumble tone at best.) We then are treated to a scene of rats sneaking amongst the pipes of a random interior space. And as much I wish this movie was secretly a live-action re-imagining of “The Secret of Nimh,” what follows is far from it.

The true “plot” (if you could call it that) of Vanquish revolves around Victoria (Rose, “The Meg”), Damon’s caretaker. A single mother with a drug crime-filled past, Victoria refuses to return to her prior life. She has a beautiful little girl, a memorable hair cut and a moto jacket to match, after-all. Yet when Damon takes Victoria’s daughter hostage, this once-criminal must fulfill Damon’s task in order to get her kid back. The job? Rob and kill a bunch of goons that are getting in Damon’s way.

What follows is an amateur, head-scratching “game” brought to life. And that is about the kindest description one can give to a movie, whose narrative peak revolves around Morgan Freeman encouraging Ruby Rose to kill baddies, via a Bluetooth headset. And no matter how utterly hilarious it is to see Freeman doing bare minimum reactions, while Rose offers her usual bag of model-turned-mundane movie star tricks, this is truly a bizarre example of the “John Wick” era of action cinema.

To simply put, Vanquish has me (and I’m sure many other moviegoers) wanting to ask if its insanely laughable qualities are perhaps intentional. Because its hard to not view a scene of a rat witnessing bad guys discussing their latest crime, followed by a line of dialog that says “you’re right, the guy was gonna rat us out,” as anything but a joke. It’s nearly impossible to not see the awkward camera motions within Damon’s house as being anything other than a clip from a “Saturday Night Live” digital short. And it’s pretty hard to not see Freeman offering Rose a selection of weapons, via a Crate & Barrel display in his kitchen, as anything but a visual chuckle.

Yet Vanquish could have been something. Writer/Director George Gallo did write “Bad Boys” and “Midnight Run,” and clearly knows his way around this kind of a hyper showcase of violence. But from its lifeless cinematic energy, to its narrative and technical stumbles, it feels like George didn’t have a grasp at all on what he wanted the final product of this to be. And it especially shows when it comes to the world he sets his characters in.

Perhaps we as modern audiences have come to expect too much from our current action cinema, specifically in terms of locations. Because with The Continental within the “John Wick” franchise, to even the latest lavish Russian-operated nightclub in the charmingly simple “Nobody,” a bar has been set for current entries into this genre. And yet Gallo (along with co-screenwriter Samuel Barrett) place their band of bland individuals into equally lazy and forgettable set pieces. And it doesn’t help that every one of them is either dipped in vomit green or neon blue coloring.

But ultimately the most frustrating part of Vanquish, is how it provides yet another failed attempt at making a female led-action franchise. We’ve seen all of this before with the much more interesting likes of “Nikita,” “Salt,” and even the upcoming “Black Widow” solo film. Yet none of them seem to want to break from the typical trappings nor try to move away from the glamorous yet sexy box that staples of this genre continue to regurgitate over and over. And when you can’t even try to make someone as visually interesting as Ruby Rose captivating on screen, why even bother making the film in the first place.

At the end of the day, Vanquish offers a lot for those who eat up cringeworthy cinema like their favorite buttery popcorn. Sure, its delicious, yet it’s definitely in no way “good for you.” But there’s no denying that it is far away from being a legitimate piece of filmmaking. And if you and your fellow viewers are willing to accept that (and perhaps do some prior research to what is sure to be a future episode of “How Did This Get Made”), then I encourage you to give it a go. But if you recoil reading any of this description, throw any motivations you had towards it back into the discount bin where it belongs.

Updated with references to illegal immigration and transgender relationships to give it a more contemporary feel, the film has excellent performances, especially from Loren who still maintains her stately beauty and comedic charm, though much of it is hidden by a grey wig and a scowl on her face as befits the character. While the film has moments that testify to the strength of the human spirit, its unwillingness to explore deeper aspects of its characters beyond what appears on the surface does not serve the film well. The screenplay by director Edoardo Ponti and Ugo Chiti (“Dogman”) (with collaborations from Fabio Natale, “Drive me Home”), is not short on empathy for those who carry physical and mental wounds, but falls short of truly connecting on an emotional level.

Over the years, Rosa (Loren) has been a foster mother for the children of prostitutes, currently looking after two, a boy studying Hebrew to prepare for his Bar Mitzvah and the other left by Lola (Abril Zamora, “Who Would You Take to a Deserted Island?”), her transgender neighbor and friend. Rosa agrees (for $750) to take in the 12-year-old Momo (short for Mohammed) (Ibrahima Gueye) after a request from Dr. Coen (Renato Carpentieri, “Hammamet”), a kindly man who became the boy’s guardian after a “tragedy.” He now thinks Momo, who imagines being friends with a magical lioness, would benefit from having a strong maternal figure in his life rather than relying on the system of social services.

The film then flashes back to Momo’s theft of Madame Rosa’s shopping bag at an outdoor market and his forced return of the item by Doctor Coen, though the boy can barely say the word “sorry.” Rosa is only vaguely aware of the task she has undertaken as Momo, at first, is a rebellious and uncommunicative boy who works the streets as a drug dealer for local kingpin Ruspa (Massimiliano Rossi, “The Bad Poet”), uncommonly portrayed as just another day job. In a sporadic but mostly ineffective voiceover, Momo says at the beginning, “Some say that everything is written, that you can’t change anything,” and we see Momo locking himself into the basement of an old apartment building.

He is scruffy and foul-mouthed but there is a beating heart and some charm underneath his tough veneer that is reminiscent of Zain in Labecki’s “Capernaum,” another lost boy who lives on the streets. Even with the mentoring efforts of Mr. Hamil (Babak Karimi, “The Salesman”), a gentle Muslim storekeeper who Rosa enlists to serve as a kind of father figure to Momo, the boy continues to work the streets. “I’m not going to suck up to happiness,” he says, “If it shows up, great.” Though Madame Rosa’s task is daunting and her advanced age and growing dementia is a severe limitation, she believes her personal strength developed through her own traumas can help.

Momo has a long way to go to learn to accept his new environment, but his best moments are not when he is playing the tough guy, but when he rides his bike through busy streets with a broad smile on his face and when he dances wildly at a party where he expresses his pent-up feelings with unrestrained exuberance. Frequently drifting away from reality, Rosa tells Momo about a secret room to which she often retreats to make her feel safe. “In Auschwitz,” she says, “I would hide under the floorboards,” but the increasingly blank looks on her face tell a deeper story. Though Momo’s antagonistic relationship with Rosa and others in the home has changed, his sudden caring for the increasingly ill Rosa feels too abrupt to be convincing and an unwelcome spoonful of feel-good melodrama, underscored by the music of Gabriel Yared (“Judy”), does not help the medicine go down, even with the assistance of a Diane Warren ballad to smooth the way.

So when the streaming platform serves up a new release, written and produced by the all-conquering Russo brothers no less, audiences were understandably salivating. We’re starving prisoners, quarantined in cells of self-isolation. Sadly, their serving, Extraction, isn’t nourishing fare. It’s all bone, gristle, and lumpy mashed potato. We’ve been cooked this dish before, better, and with more flavor.

The set-menu reads: Bangladeshi Drug Lord kidnaps Indian Drug Lord’s son. Indian Drug Lord hires tough white guy to kidnap son back. Tough white guy travels to Bangladesh, dispatches hordes of red shirts, blows stuff up. This isn’t fine dining. The Russo’s have cobbled together a bunch of stock ingredients, added heat, and hoped the end result would make an acceptable meal. It hasn’t. One would expect more from the Michelin-starred chefs behind the highest-grossing movie of all time (“Avengers: Endgame”).

Our tough white guy here is Tyler Rake (Chris Hemsworth, “Bad Times at the El Royale”), a likeable Aussie bloke who’s also good at shooting people. We’re introduced to Rake when he’s off-the-job, on a sunny clifftop, just hanging out with some mates and a box of cold ones. Suddenly, he leaps from the edge, plunging 30 meters into the water below. Rake doesn’t surface. Is he OK? The mates are worried. Then we see him, resting on the lake bed, legs crossed in a meditative pose. This guy is ICE COLD. But wait, he’s frowning . . . We’re shown flashbacks of a blurry wife and child. Our hero isn’t calm and composed. He’s tormented. Sad. Troubled by loss.

Tyler Rake is the action man we’ve seen many, many, many times before: The badass good guy who couldn’t care less whether he lives or dies. Indeed, it’s precisely this lack of self-preservation that makes him so bloody deadly. Tyler Rake is Riggs in “Lethal Weapon.” Or Tony Montana in “Scarface.” Or John Wick in “John Wick.” We can practically see Hemsworth clipping Keanu Reeve’s magazine into his own Glock 9mm.

One of the few elements of spice arises from the film’s setting. Dhaka is shown as a mysterious, thrumming, chaotic city. Chases and action sequences capture its frenetic atmosphere, whilst the ever-amber sun illuminates the colorful street culture. Yet still, for a country like Bangladesh that has seldom seen Hollywood’s spotlight, it all feels terribly familiar. One can picture an out-of-work editor producing something similar by chopping together scenes from “Slumdog Millionaire,” “The Raid: Redemption” and “Thor: Ragnarok.” It feels awfully unoriginal, regurgitated.

A fresh ingredient to the stew, however, is young actor Rudhraksh Jaiswal (“Kosha”), who plays doe-eyed kidnapee Ovi. His innate vulnerability and admiration of Rake as protector and “big brother” offer rare emotional moments of texture. Sadly, they’re not enough to invest us in the success of Rake’s rescue mission, which finds us counting down the minutes to a videogame-like conclusion.

Watching Extraction feels akin to staring at the front cover of a Bangladeshi travel guide and never opening to the first page. I found myself imagining Tyler Rake kicking in my front door, putting a bag over my head, and rescuing me from this militaristic flag-waving rehash. Inexplicably, there are talks of a sequel. Extraction is one too many portions already.