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.

Despite his trademark approach to grisly content and non-traditional storytelling, Tarantino approaches Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood with a level of delicacy and patience that is unrivaled, making what seemingly could have been a tasteless attempt at capitalizing on an unsettling story, into an inspired ode to Hollywood and it’s most grandiose tales.

Presenting itself as a twisted perspective of the Tate murders of 1969, this genre bending film warps the expectations of its audience from the very introduction of our main characters, fading TV star Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio, “The Revenant”) and his stuntman best bud Cliff Booth (Brad Pitt, “Fury”). These men are not our heroes or even our protagonists, but they are our vehicles, transporting us through a world that Tarantino clearly deifies. Once they are introduced, and our expectations are patiently subdued, we are transported into a world that seems like a continuous fairy tale.

As we follow Dalton and Booth through the streets of Hollywood and beyond, the fable gets more interesting as we’re introduced to an assortment of interesting characters that represent the good, the bad and the ugly. We meet people like Dalton’s agent Marvin Schwarzs (Al Pacino, “The Revenant”), Bruce Lee (Mike Moh, “Empire” TV series), the ill-fated Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie, “I, Tonya”) and those that would do her and her house guests harm, Charles Manson (Damon Herriman, “The Little Death”) and Squeaky Fromme (Dakota Fanning, “Ocean’s 8”).

As this assortment of personalities entertains, cinematographer Robert Richardson’s uniquely dreamy and authentic cinematic landscape elevates this slowly evolving comedic drama between two best friends into a magnified love letter to the 1960s, Hollywood, and especially Westerns as Tarantino uses every performance from even the smallest of contributors (Robbie being the most publicized) to paint the picture of his inspirations. While his trademark style is still unapologetically peppered throughout the film, it never becomes tasteless or overdone (as some would say “Inglourious Basterds” or “Django Unchained” is). Somewhere within the edit room is a version of this film that is much less majestic (this clocks in at nearly three hours), however, Tarantino manages to keep Once Upon a Time in Hollywood on point with the help of editor and frequent collaborator Fred Raskin, who’s subtle touch gives the film near perfect cadence.

Love Tarantino or despise him if you will, but after Once Upon a Time … in Hollywood I do not think that his dedication to the craft of movie making can be questioned. When a director approaches not only a unique topic but a unique era with the level of passion, sincerity, and creativity that Tarantino has in this movie, it’s nothing short of vivid and all-consuming, making this one of the most imaginative and entrancing stories of Tarantino’s career.

We Are X is that kind of documentary that completely misses its mark, the kind that actually, X aside, gives you the impression there was never a mark to begin with. It follows the rise and fall and disbandment and triumphant comeback of X Japan, a metal/glam rock cult group with nearly religious followers in Japan and a cult following everywhere else in the world, including America, where the band tried hard (heavy) to break new grounds — unsuccessfully so. We don’t get to know very well why that happened, other than the fact that they were Japanese and they played with an accent. Musical connoisseur, Gene Simmons, internationally known for his musicianship and versatility, ventures to say that had they been born in the US, they would have been the greatest band in America, and therefore, in the world. Other than that, there’s few to be known.

Except for a few clues from rock sages, Stephen Kijak’s film misses its aim over and over again. We never really get to understand anything at all; it’s all scratching through the surface of a double-edged sword, contouring the shoreline between myth and mist, mythification and mystification. We Are X, true, is not as creepily shallow as a “VH1 Behind the Music” (way, way behind), and, definitely, not as monstrously self-indulgent as Metallica’s “Some Kind of Monster” (yes, an unnameable kind). But close. It is, most positively, not the in-depth, raptured look it purports (first) and/or wants (after) to be. Descriptive to the Xtreme.

And not even its descriptions are complete. The main problem with We Are X is how incomplete it feels. It never finishes what it starts. Not looking at Yoshiki’s pain. Not looking at his past. Not at the band’s. Not at the music (not even one song is played to its entirety). Not at . . . all. It’s its wooliness, its inconstancy, the inconstancy of an eye that dwells in too many places (never at once, always linearly) without focusing on anything properly, not giving any image, object, or vision its fair due, not even its unfair one. It’s a gaze that annoyingly keeps shifting its focus and lens, unwittingly digressive. Unlike the garments that garland most of the band’s acts, the storylines seem stitched — never woven.

So, even the trope of pain that seems to be at the core of its main subject is stitched together, physical with psychical. The connections are quite obvious; it’s not hard to make them. Yet the effect feels hollow, with no resonance within our experiences as viewers. Yoshiki’s inoculations, for instance, stand almost as a symbol of his vulnerability, which contrasts heavily with the strength with which we see him banging his drums. A Logan-like serum quickly loses our attention as it is anxiously rushed into the scars of his past, his father’s suicide, his mother’s grief, his own, etc. By the time we come back to the pained joints, we’re not that interested anymore. It all loses its purpose, if it had any. This loss kind of summarizes the overall focus of the documentary (if it has any); it is an irresponsive myth pulled by the currents of an apathetic stream. When it finally touches land, it is too bloated and swollen to appreciate.

Likely what is most annoying of We Are X is that it doesn’t lack interesting subjects; it’s just how underdeveloped they are that unnerves us. The loss in translation, for instance, of the band’s first attempts at transplantation, trying to graft themselves in American soil, opens an ample area for exploration that is too hastily brushed. The way, for instance, in which the Western canon has treated Japanese Manga, as an exotic genre rather than as a medium in its own right, is perfectly reflective of X’s fate after their first attempt at internationalization, and perfectly reflective of the reception they’re having as they prepare for their dreamed comeback show at Madison Square Garden (in what portends to be the documentary’s narrative gravitas). But we see this, again, because it is too obviously present, not because of Kijak’s eye. The American industry’s exemplary ethnocentrism is displayed in all its infamous glory — in spite of the director’s attention to it.

Another aspect annoyingly overseen (or too rushedly brushed) is the degree to which X grafts their Western influences into their ancestral traditions — the degree to which they bring the heavy sounds and make-up to Manga storytelling and Kabuki theater aesthetics. Again, this is anecdotally told in passing. And, perhaps, the portrait is all too accurate, as (judging for the very few seconds of musical pieces and gigs we get to see) the band likely did a similar job when integrating these influences: Stitching rather than weaving them together. In the same way in which the film doesn’t decide on a frame to house its myth, the band doesn’t provide the ground where its mythology can properly grow. A homeless myth is not too different from an unripe mythology. Cut-outs on a paper wall.

And it’s not clear either whether Kijak really brought the fragmented, often digressive narrative from Manga or if it is just the by-product of his own vacillation. The traditional style (heir of Kabuki theater, template of all pop art in Japan) is not seized by him with enough conviction to affirm either way. The way in which image overthrows words in Manga is too frequently replaced by talking-heads iterating storylines that weren’t even properly introduced before. Images, unfortunately, are rarely left to speak for themselves.

There is, nonetheless, one consistent feat in the film. The main reason why We Are X does not fall into the atrocious arena of VH1 or MTV’s clichéd formulas is its absence of an omnipresent narrator. If there are words, they are all intradiegetic, they’re all issued from the characters’ mouths. Yet, although a focal feature of Mangas, we cannot fully say whether Kijak followed this model or not; we could just as much say that he subscribes more to Dziga Vertov’s school than to Robert J. Flaherty’s. There’s not enough meat to say that, although there is no eye-in-the-sky camera, his is a Manga kind of gaze. Even though the camera is always at the level of the characters, it is never intimate enough. It always feels like a courtesan eye, an eye that indulges in what its subjects want to see, rather than risks to see what is beyond their (often) vain stares. The eye behind the camera is neither compassionate nor critical nor penetrating — let alone intimate. The analytical montage, the signature move of Manga narrative structure, is replaced by Kijak with a flattering mishmash. Nothing but a pleasant portrayer.

The only constant in We Are X, the only X indeed, is interruption. As happens with its subjects, age is constantly deferred, constantly tabled and avoided. Because aging is what’s truly painful. Consider this work then like a vanity portrait. Doubtless better than Botox. Though barely better than make-up. Not one arc ages in this film. Not one arc concludes. It’s an old myth putting on a mask of cosmetic products to keep an undying appearance. Not one arc ages, and thus not one finds a natural spot to stop.

For those not old enough to have lived through the musical madness known as the “British Invasion” in the early 60’s sparked by the pop cultural impact of The Beatles, they certainly experienced that same sense of lyrical landscape that faithfully recalled the nostalgic throwback to the famed Fab Four with Oasis. Whatever the Beatle-esque selling point was also in Oasis that resonated with their rabid enthusiasts — early struggles en route to worldwide stardom, the physical mop-top look and swagger, the infectious soulful and bouncy tunes, the fanatical female following, behind-the-stage curtains feuding, public and private controversies, a dysfunctional brotherly upbringing, massive sellout concerts, undying worshiping, artistic differences. The observational spotlight featured in Oasis: Supersonic strolls down Memory Lane with inside accounts from bickering brothers Noel and Liam Gallagher, archival footage and insights from close family and associates that were exposed to the confrontational band’s triumphant and turbulent times.

Oasis: Supersonic employs the same producers responsible for the creative fare “Senna” and “Amy,” skillfully utilizing storytelling methods through the resourceful usage of new interviews while incorporating archive footage and never-seen-before takes of Oasis’s exclusive jam sessions. In doing so it methodically soars as it examines the rise of Oasis from the humble beginnings in 1991 to their remarkable performance in front of a quarter of a million concertgoers at Knebworth in 1996. Their magical five-year run on the pop charts was due to the contentious existence between Noel’s songwriting prowess and Liam’s silky vocals. It is a crying shame that deep-seeded conflict and unresolved angst between them defeated the powerful pop group at the peak of their creative prowess. How sad that the talented music-makers that orchestrated such heartfelt hits as “Champagne Supernova,” “Live Forever,” and “Wonderwall” would be their own worst enemy.

The Oasis story is not about the epic fall of a randy rock n’ roll band that overstayed their welcome until musical malaise inevitably set in without warning. Instead, the blustery blokes slit their own throats as they destroyed the glorious momentum and ruined their international standing at the pinnacle of success. Hence, Whitecross cross-examines all that were involved in the eventual Oasis meltdown — the Gallaghers, the band members, family notables and miscellaneous employees.

Whitecross revisits the Gallagher’s growing pains with the aid of their mother Peggy as she shares childhood photo collections of her future rock star sons. The revelations about the boys’ abusive father is discussed, causing one to wonder if he was the catalyst for what would be Noel and Liam’s personalized turmoil that they carried into adulthood. The documentary never shies away from the unsettling incidents that creep forward as the songbird sibs start to make music industry waves. As Oasis seizes its place, we are astounded by Noel’s effortless abilities for writing songs from tortured inspiration. Soon, the brotherly heartthrobs and their bandmates would catch fire while juggling the adversities and absurdities that circled their heated existences. Consequently, Oasis created a colorful commotion with modern-day Beatles-induced ballads that almost everyone seemed to eat up without question.

The flood gates, however, for casting a critical eye on Oasis — specifically the Gallagher duo — predictably opened soon after with a convincing bang. Unruly domestic confrontations, consistent clashes with the intrusive British paparazzi, performing lethargically during their first American gig at a Californian night club and getting banned from a Dutch ferry for rough-housing is just a few negative highlights that transpired. With this spontaneous, off-kilter showmanship, the backdoor buzz that conveniently defined the Gallaghers’ debauchery towards one another (or against whomever) was in fact the zenith of their fan’s adulation. Unfortunately, the brothers made Oasis a steady tabloid magnet for willing detractors to exploit and eventually help topple as well.

Again, there is really no earth-shattering tidbits here in Oasis: Supersonic to address a strife-ridden 90’s rock band that seemed to burst out of nowhere only to succumb to the tumultuous showbiz shenanigans that Noel and Liam crafted so foolishly. Oasis may be a frenzied footnote from yesteryear’s rock radar that served as a backdrop to the Bush/Clinton administrations, but one cannot dismiss their crazed musical minions who still escape musically through their seminal albums such as “Definitely Maybe” or “(What’s the Story”) Morning Glory?”

Feisty and unapologetic, Oasis: Supersonic impishly encourages a radical ride on Oasis’ symbolically aforementioned “Champagne Supernova.” So why not fasten your seat-belts . . . although the feral Gallaghers would probably prefer you travel without any safety hats.