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.

The fractures of this family may be familiar, but they are also distinct. As mentioned, Bernardo has trouble separating the somberness of his work from his homelife. Estela is deeply troubled by a previous abusive relationship, but Irina is strongly attached to the memory of her deceased father and openly resents Bernardo. Focused on her smart phone and wishing to leave, Irina is a familiar teenager, although as becomes clear, the family situation is not altogether every day.

A painted red line through the middle of the garden and parts of the house indicates that the family are not alone, but interestingly, the haunting is something expected and accepted. The ghosts of Bernardo’s clients haunt the premises and the family have learned to live with them. Ojeda ties this haunting closely to domesticity, including gifts for the ghosts, messages on fogged windows, and the family’s personal hygiene. Buckets in bedrooms as well as a portable toilet in the garden indicate the allowances they have to make for their disembodied houseguests, which make some of the resentments among Irina and Estela understandable. Then something else starts threatening them, the film employing a different type of dread to communicate this new danger.

Many a ghost story, such as the recent “Relic,” “The Banishing” as well as “The Sixth Sense,” “The Others” and “The Orphanage,” use the device of wide angles to capture something unexpected or out of place in the frame. The Funeral Home uses this technique as well, and also that of objects appearing from darkened spaces. Combining haunted house tropes with those of possession, sometimes a door opens and nothing emerges; other times a clearly inhuman hand makes an appearance. Close-ups of red eyes add to the creeping horror as the space becomes ever more menacing.

In its parts, the film is fine. It does the job, it unsettles, it has some jump scares, there is some gore; overall it works. However, it is rather one note. Ojeda relies to a great extent on tracking shots through the dark house, shadows and shapes suggesting malevolence, as well as a recurring device of chickens running back and forth. The trouble is, that’s about it, and the moody visuals do become somewhat repetitive. The late addition of another character feels forced, while flashbacks presenting Bernardo’s relationship with his father add little to the drama. Worse, the ending is very strange and feels not of a piece with the rest of the film. When potentially shocking events take place, there has been insufficient dramatic weight to make them effective. More variety might have increased the suspense and allowed a greater sense of peril. Still, as a debut The Funeral Home shows plenty of potential for Ojeda, and hopefully we will see more from him in the future.

Set in 1665 England during the twin terrors of the plague and witch hunts, Kirk (“Ocean’s 8”) plays Grace, widowed after the death of her husband Joseph (Joe Anderson, “Bleeding Heart”) from plague. Grace struggles to pay the rent and runs afoul of the local squire Pendleton (Steven Waddington, “The Imitation Game”), who seeks an alternative form of payment. As a woman alone whose husband died when she and her infant daughter survived, it’s not long before Grace is accused of witchcraft, imprisoned, and tortured. To assist with her confession, Pendleton calls in Witchfinder Moorcroft (Sean Pertwee, “The Magnificent Eleven”) and his malevolent associate Ursula (Suzanne Magowan), and things get steadily gorier.

Despite the promising material, The Reckoning is, sadly, a disappointment. This is largely because it’s a mess, both in terms of genre and style. The setting is obviously historical, a point underscored by the opening and closing supertext. Ian Bailie’s production design is sumptuous and handsome, from the wooden hut of Grace to Pendleton’s stone castle, complete with dungeon and well. The plague makeup is also effectively icky from a body horror perspective, especially in lingering shots of pustules. However, makeup also proves to be a problem as Grace herself looks too good. Her eyeshadow is jarring from the beginning, and her perpetually pristine golden locks and unblemished face undercut the realism suggested by the mud and blood around her. It may seem like a minor quibble, but if the arc of the film is to be Grace’s suffering, she needs to look like she is actually suffering in order for it to convince.

Perhaps the makeup would be less of an issue if there were a greater sense of pain. While Grace is subjected to various torments and Kirk screams quite well, the sense of torture is incomplete. Marshall pays slightly fetishistic attention to Moorcroft’s large apparatus as well as the various metal instruments used to inflict pain upon Grace. Despite this attention, the film seems unwilling to commit to the nastiness of what it presents, suggesting gore but omitting suffering. As a result, torture remains a rather empty spectacle rather than something that unsettles or horrifies.

Speaking of horror, The Reckoning combines aspects of folk and occult horror. The first appears through the town that accuses Grace, although there is a little sense of a menacing community such as in “The Wicker Man” or the recent “Death of Me.” What we get of the town is a tavern and square, with some rather gurning faces peering into the camera as they speak their accusations. The other aspect is Moorcroft the Witchfinder. Sean Pertwee channels Vincent Price’s iconic performance as Michael Hopkins, but like the rest of the film, the campiness overwhelms the potentially horrific subject matter and Pertwee often seems one step away from twirling his moustache. As he twirls, Grace defies, as rather than focusing on suffering or oppression, the film turns into a battle of wills between Moorcroft and Grace who, wouldn’t you know it, have a history!

The occult horror side of things make the film even more overwrought as ghostly and demonic energies arise. Maybe they are dreams, maybe not, but Grace’s encounters with supernatural forces are so overdone as to be silly more than anything else. These scenes might have worked in a full-on fantasy campfest like 2011’s “Season of the Witch” or 2009’s “Solomon Kane,” but set against the historical backdrop of the plague and witch hunts, it feels underdeveloped and discordant. Discordancy also afflicts the film’s editing, which is at times as jarring as Grace’s makeup. Marshall seems to have decided on an overtly melodramatic style, with crosscutting between different times and locations as well as distracting inserts (hey look, they had hot sex in olden times!).

The melodramatic style does start to fit in the film’s final act as The Reckoning morphs into a sort of period revenge action movie. Torture instruments are turned about, bedpans and stools are swung as weapons alongside swords. During this act, the film becomes slightly reminiscent of “Django Unchained,” offering a fantasy retribution for historical wrongs. There are some satisfying moments, one involving a cart, but also some unnecessary twists that add little in the way of suspense or surprise, while a mirrored device of a sword cutting a rope adds no weight to the proceedings. The film’s politics are progressive, since as a post #MeToo horror, The Reckoning takes some swings at the patriarchy, but the condemnation of female oppression is clumsily handled and ultimately unconvincing. The supertext that provides statistics at the end feels like an attempt to give the film weight, but the juxtaposition with the final image undermines this. Indeed, undermining and contradiction are the overall feeling of The Reckoning, resulting in an intermittently enjoyable but uneven mishmash of narrative, generic and stylistic features.

Combining these two distinct, yet similar, art forms might work, but in the case of Heckle they prove a hopeless mishmash. This is because writer Airell Anthony Hayles and director Martyn Pick do not actually combine stand-up comedy with slasher, but rather try to innovate the extremely tired slasher genre with a sort of twist that involves some stand-up comedians. That’s about it.

Plot wise, Heckle features seven obnoxious people who get together for a Halloween party. Among them is Joe Johnson (Guy Combes, “Kill Ben Lyk”) a stand-up comedian who is set to star in a film where he will play a (in the world of the film) real stand-up comedian who was murdered. A sprinkle of Hollywood dust is that this comedian, Ray Kelly, who appears in flashbacks, is played by Steve Guttenberg (“Trauma Center”). Notably in these flashbacks, Ray appears to be a thoroughly horrible person and perhaps we therefore think he deserved to die. Furthermore, Joe is also a horrible person who is demanding of and unfaithful to his girlfriend Evelyn (Madison Clare), abusive of his manager David (Louis Selwyn, “Evil Never Dies”) and less than engaging towards his fans. It’s notable that we only see one sequence of Joe performing, and the sequence barely includes any jokes. When Joe starts receiving threatening phone calls from a heckler, you could say he brought it on himself.

Quite aside from Joe’s upcoming stardom and stalker problems, his entourage (group of friends would be pushing it) decide to hold a Halloween party, with an 80s theme, at a remote house in the country. What could go wrong? When a menacing figure in a red hoodie and a clown mask turns up, as you might expect it’s a question of who’s going first and how. We spend some time with the characters as they drink and make unwanted advances on each other. Most of the running time involves the party, which looks to be the most boring and excruciating party imaginable. The group sit around and comment on each other’s costumes, drink and snipe at each other, watch a movie on a top-loading video cassette recorder (it’s SOOO retro!), then play a game in which they take roles of slasher victims. Is this homage, meta-commentary or nonsense? Possibly all three, but mostly nonsense.

As this drivel goes on, padded beyond belief with Joe popping out to a nearby spa and then to the pub they dropped into earlier, the question of when someone will die becomes ever more pressing. The answer is not soon enough — in a film of only 81 minutes it’s nearly half-way through before a death arrives. But the kills provide little release (or relief) because they are far from scary and as dull as everything that has come before. Pick’s constantly shaking camera is annoying and robs the film of any suspense — shaky-cam expresses the loss of equilibrium, but if you’re shaking all the time, there was never any equilibrium to begin with thus you have lost nothing. It is possible to use constantly unsteady footage to create tension, so where’s Paul Greengrass when you need him? Off making effective films with Matt Damon or Tom Hanks, naturally.

Come the final act of Heckle, there’s a sort of double twist which is likely to prompt groans rather than gasps. The reveals expose gaping plot holes which are completely unnecessary and could have been filled, suggesting lazy writing and a lack of care over the material. Despite the desultory character interaction, the film gives off an air of a bunch of friends getting together to make a film about them all hanging out. Hopefully they had fun making it, because there’s precious little fun to be had for anyone watching this garish, confused and quite awful muddle of a movie.

In The Color Rose, released as “The Sinners” in the UK, writer-director Courtney Paige uses excessive lighting, dreamy music and shifts in the speed of action to create a suffusive, sensual and sinister tale of teenage rebellion gone horribly wrong. It’s not entirely successful, with some sections working better than others, but The Color Rose is discomfiting and involving in its world building and thematic expression. An early part of this establishment is the location, an isolated town surrounded by gorgeous mountains, deep forests and an ominous lake. Small wonder that the opening voiceover refers to the lake and a feeling of submergence pervades much of the film.

The location recalls the sublime in art, attempts to represent the majesty and terror of divine creation. This duality is further emphasized by the setting of a small and strictly religious town, where church and Bible study inform every part of life and sin is rigidly avoided. Except it isn’t because the film follows seven teenage girls dubbed “the Sins” by their classmates. Grace Carver (Kaitlyn Bernard, “The Professor”) is the leader of the group and the film’s antihero, dubbed Lust with a certain amount of irony, although certain sequences emphasize a sensuality in her that is almost tactile. Grace’s relationship with her family, especially her father Pastor Dean Carver (Tahmoh Penikett, “Painkillers”), is the source of considerable tension which boils over into violence that impacts the entire community. Tori Davidson (Brenna Coates, “Coroner” TV series) is Wrath, Grace’s close confidant and clandestine lover. Rich girl Katie Hamilton (Keilani Elizabeth Rose, “Woodland”) gets whatever she wants but her Greed is never satisfied. Stacey Rodgers (Jasmine Randhawa) has Envy for those around her. Molly McIvor (Carly Fawcett, “Night Sweats”), insecure about her body, comfort eats due to her Gluttony, while Robyn Pearce (Natalie Malaika, “Picture Day”) demonstrates her Sloth by coasting through school and athletics despite her natural gifts. Brenna Llewellyn (“CR: Complete Reality”) is Aubrey Miller, Pride and the narrator in a way that is, well, that would be telling.

Within their repressive community, the girls are a talking point and it is not long before they start their own little rebellion. And as you might expect, it isn’t long before things go too far. In constructing this story, Paige combines elements of teen drama, folk and occult horror. Holy verses rub shoulders with Satanic rituals, and a careless word can have severe repercussions. This is an interesting comment on religious dogma, as intolerance and judgment seem to be the watchwords of this community rather than love and forgiveness. When characters turn up dead, cries for vengeance and retribution drown out those of mourning.

The film’s presentation of teenage pranks leading to mob hysteria creates inevitable comparisons with “Heathers,” although the film lacks the strong satirical bite of that teen classic. The film is also reminiscent of “Scream” and “Mean Girls,” as well as “The Craft” with its incorporation of occult imagery. A more recent antecedent is 2018’s “Assassination Nation,” which was a scathing indictment of various social expectations. The Color Rose is less acerbic, but perhaps oddly has a warmer heart, since the girls at the center of the drama are presented as flawed and confused, trying to figure out how to be themselves when their elders regularly tell them they are not good enough. Religion works as a metaphor for gender repression here, as the girls’ school classes appear to consist of Bible study based on how well they know the material, yet it seems they can never know it well enough. The stricture on display may well provoke annoyance from disagreeing viewers, but it would be simplistic to view the film as a condemnation of religious dogma. The girls are recognizable from the genre entries as mentioned above, as much products of contemporary western society as they are of their specific niche of it. Also, the repression is largely implied rather than enforced, with nothing in the way of punishment as seen in something like “Carrie.” Thus, the notion of an expectant atmosphere and how one negotiates one’s own identity within that atmosphere is central to the film, again adding to the suffusive nature of The Color Rose.

The atmosphere of the film is its most effective element. Sometimes the style is inconsistent and a little jarring, such as Paige’s device of speeding up the action at moments of high tension. This can induce shock, but the device is used somewhat clumsily at times. More effective are the sudden inserts, such as moments of violence where we only see a little: As is often the case, suggestion can be more frightening than explication. Best of all are the slower moments, such as the girls walking through their high school with blatant disregard for their moral instructors, flesh on display as an act of defiance rather than spectacle. Speaking of display, as might be expected with a large cast like this, some of the characters receive more attention than others, with the film’s focus largely on Grace and Tori and the other girls somewhat sidelined. It is also a film of discordant narrative threads — a criminal investigation thread is somewhat mechanical, with Sheriff Fred Middleton (Aleks Paunovic, “Volition”) and Deputy Douglas Sanders (Taylor St. Pierre, “Last Night in Suburbia”) shifting from buffoonery to competency as the plot demands it. But despite these problems, The Color Rose still succeeds as an effective blend of repression, rebellion, teen terror and occult horror, largely because of the atmosphere that suffuses and discomforts the viewer.

Like many a ghost tale, The Banishing uses the possibility of a spectral presence as a metaphor for past fears and regrets, and especially sin. Beginning with a priest reading from an intriguingly defaced Bible, we quickly move to a horrific murder scene and a subsequent response. Clearly, the house where this event and the rest of the film takes place has some dark secrets. From here, we are introduced to Marianne (Jessica Brown Findlay, “Lullaby”) and her daughter Adelaide (Anya McKenna-Bruce, “Adult Material” TV series), as they arrive at the house we have already seen (run away!). Marianne’s relatively new husband, Linus (John Heffernan, “Official Secrets”) has recently been appointed priest for this parish, somewhere near Colchester in the late 1930s. Characters refer to the rise of fascism in Europe and the appeasement strategy of Neville Chamberlain. The film’s focus, however, is on Marianne and her relationships with both Adelaide and Linus. The scenes between Adelaide and Marianne are charming and genuine, which is further emphasized as we learn more about Marianne’s history and the debt she is expected to feel towards Linus. Expectations lead to family dinners become increasingly strained as Linus adheres to strict the rules associated with his position, his adherence exposing his inner weakness and lack of conviction.

The fractures in the family are escalated as Marianne hears unusual noises and Adelaide begins acting strangely. Moreover, a fear of authority starts to loom over them. Initially the authority is represented by Linus, but as his weakness becomes more apparent the menacing role is filled by Bishop Malachi (John Lynch, “Boys from County Hell”), whose visits to the family remind everyone of their place. Marianne, however, finds alternative perspectives from maid Betsy (Jean St. Clair) as well as local conspiracy theorist Harry Price (Sean Harris, “Mission: Impossible – Fallout”). As she learns more, she becomes increasingly at odds with the patriarchal establishment.

Such an arc is typical for the gothic tale, as the female protagonist is repressed and her sanity is questioned by those around her and eventually herself. The Banishing takes this conceit further, using the traditional haunted house tropes of long corridors, deep shadow and creepy dolls (there must be a specialist agency, Demonic Dollies, perhaps). Smith adds the extra feature of catacombs beneath the house, which might be clichéd but are used to brilliant effect due to very limited light and some flashes of horrific imagery including hooded figures and a bloodied woman. The questioning is less of Marianne’s mind but of the surroundings, especially as Smith starts to play with time. Time is a central element of cinema, as the medium of film is a capturing and re-ordering of time. Distorting our perception of time can be very frightening, and such a distortion is used here to exacerbate the sense of menace.

As well as time, another central cinematic element that the film distorts is images. It may seem trite, but as cinema is the presentation of images, create mistrust in these and you create unease. A common device in horror and especially ghost stories are mirrors, and the mirrors here are used with great invention. We have probably all seen horror films in which reflections appear and then disappear, but here we have reflections that do not match the original person who looks into the glass. Time is again central here, as Marianne or Adelaide move their arms only for their reflections to move out of sync with them. Both image and time add to the idea of the world around Marianne being untrustworthy. Nor is the temporal disjunct confined to the mirrors, as sometimes we see a figure enter a room and see the same figure in the background. What is the source of the haunting here? Is it some dark secret buried beneath the house, or is Marianne experiencing different moments in time simultaneously? As her unease grows, so too does ours, aided by occasional bursts of bloody violence.

When it focuses on Marianne and the menace she encounters within the house, The Banishing is both eerie and brutal. It loses its way somewhat when attempting to connect ideas of familial and religious repression to the rise of fascism. Linus and Marianne’s arguments over the appropriate response to Hitler’s Germany never goes beyond those arguments, while brief references are made to links between senior church figures and the Third Reich. These ideas are interesting but insufficiently developed and feel like they were forced in from another film. In an interview at FrightFest 2020, Smith explained that he wanted to make a point about contemporary UK politics, suggesting that the Britain of the 1930s was what the Brexit movement seek to recreate. Smith’s intention is noble and horror does lend itself to political commentary, but here it feels clumsy and too overt.

Aside from this diversion, The Banishing is a hugely satisfying watch, that had this critic getting tense and then jumping with fear. The performances are strong, especially Findlay who displays resolve and courage alongside fear and frustration. Harris is a hoot as Price, his shambling gait and flowing arms suggesting intoxication but never slipping into parody. Smith directs all with a keen eye for detail that allows him to disrupt the space much as he does time. It offers much for fans of suspense as well as moments of gore and offers some substance behind its scares. And it carries that warning of so many horror films: Never let your child play with an eyeless doll!