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 friends are excited and unable to keep secrets, and news of this spreads quickly, which prompts Bryce to ask Madison to do him a favor and come home with him, and pretend that they’re dating. Madison is initially reluctant, until she realizes that she needs the escape from her on again/off again boyfriend Zane Thomas (Zebedee Row, “Ghost in the Graveyard”), so off they go to Alabama. The pair basically do everything that you would stereotypically associate with the setting — indulge in barbecue ribs and fried food, participate in line dancing, and play a friendly game of flag football.

Of these clichéd scenarios, I enjoyed the line dancing segment somewhat, since everyone was grooving to Taylor Hicks performing “Gives You Hell.” I had always wondered what happened to that guy after he won American Idol, and now I know — he’s in this movie. The rest of Stars Fell on Alabama crawls by, with none of the charm that is necessary for this romancer to tread water. Maslow and Hanna have no chemistry together. They are both very good looking, but their relationship is flat and unbelievable. Maslow’s Bryce has more of a connection with his high school ex-girlfriend Rachel (Lesa Wilson, “The Baby Proposal”) than his supposed love interest. It is strange, since Maslow has a funny bone, as those of us would know if we grew up listening to “Big Time Rush” and watching the series on Nickelodeon, but it isn’t really on display here.

There are also running gags that are just not funny either, like Bryce being constantly pestered by his English teacher to read her script, or his inability to use “y’all” like every Alabamian. In this genre, it is standard to create obstacles for the main couple to overcome, but the impediments created here are not organic and so contrived. These obstacles should be a natural thing in the process of the relationship, not, as an example, the mayor’s wife trying to stir up trouble with a make-out session at a car park. And whenever there is a complication, the other person mopes for a few and soon thereafter gets over it without skipping a beat. Thus, when they do eventually get together (as is usually the case with a rom-com), it doesn’t feel earned.

At the end, I didn’t believe Bryce when he spoke about having roots in his hometown — the dude looked beyond happy to be leaving soon. Me? I was happy that the movie was over, so I could move on from the hour-and-a-half I spent on this that I would never get back. The soundtrack was good though; lots of country music from indie groups to aurally entertain. Otherwise, there weren’t many stars in Stars Fell on Alabama for me to be dazzled by.

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.

This sets the stage for director Jon S. Baird’s (“Filth”) heartwarming and bittersweet biopic, Stan & Ollie, a carefully crafted film about the duo’s later days, as they held out for one more act and a proper onscreen sendoff — a comedic interpretation of “Robin Hood.”

Baird, perhaps better known for his small-screen direction for “Vinyl” and “Feed the Beast,” removes the curtain on this iconic duo — played with zeal and affection by Steve Coogan (“The Trip to Spain”) as Laurel and an unrecognizable John C. Reilly (“The Sisters Brothers”) as Oliver “Babe” Hardy. Both Coogan and Reilly deliver award-worthy performances as the golden boys of early cinematic comedy — falling into character with relative ease. At certain points in Baird’s wonderfully captured project, his lead actors truly become their subjects, with careful mannerisms, banter and nuance.

Baird’s biopic begins in 1937, at the height of Laurel and Hardy’s fame. They are preparing to shoot “Way Out West,” which would feature their famous caper outside Western-themed double doors. Each man, who has had his share of relationship difficulty, begins to recognize the impact of their impending contract squabble. Signed to Hal Roach Studios, Hardy remains under contract while Laurel aims to secure a more lucrative deal elsewhere.

The film then jumps ahead to 1953 — to a somewhat bitter Laurel and an increasingly overweight Hardy. Through flashback, it is revealed that Hardy stayed put to make the 1939 film “Zenobia” with Harry Langdon while Laurel attempted to negotiate a new contract with Fox. Hardys absence doomed the deal, and Laurel was never quite able to forgive his longtime partner. Nevertheless, their paths would soon cross again. By the ’50s, they were poised to begin a music hall tour in the U.K. and Ireland — to drum up support for their proposed “Robin Hood” feature.

Each man now happily married, the tour purports to strain their marriages and their physical health (Hardy more so). Now in their early 60s, Laurel and Hardy attempt to reprise their earlier bits — grueling both physically and mentally, as they are forced to do publicity stunts to lure theatergoers to their shows. While Laurel continues to pen scenes for their “Robin Hood” feature, Hardy takes a downward turn — as his health and finances begin to fail.

Despite these setbacks, Stan & Ollie uncovers each performer’s utter greatness, as they persevere in older age to bring laughs to fans of all ages. As their tour progresses — helmed by London-based producer Bernard Delfont (Rufus Jones, “The Foreigner”) — the seats begin to fill, a final endorsement of the duo’s contributions to cinema.

Outside of the stellar performances from each lead actor, the film also features great complementary music from Rolfe Kent, along with the duo’s recognizable theme song, “Dance of the Cuckoos.” Stan & Ollie also excels visually, between its costume work (namely Reilly’s prosthetics) and Laurie Rose’s frames. The cinematographer takes the viewer on an over-the-shoulder tour of the duo’s shows, somehow managing to capture the energy and passion of the comedic greats.

Altogether, despite being overlooked by The Academy, Stan & Ollie is a Top 10 film of 2018, with each act building almost palpable tension and cementing Laurel and Hardy’s legacy among Hollywood’s greatest. Baird’s film is a speedy 97 minutes, but not a single frame is wasted, thanks in part to Jeff Pope’s script, Baird’s apparent affection for the duo and the actors’ unflinching dedication. The latter is evident in two climactic scenes as the film nears its end — one at Hardy’s hotel bedside and another on the last leg of their tour.

This is a truly poignant film that, while predictable at points — with the aging actors facing a “new” Hollywood — manages to engage the viewer, muster some laughs and perhaps introduce the pair to a new generation. Viewing Coogan dance alongside Reilly in front of the saloon doors, one does not have to strenuously suspend their disbelief, as the filmmakers and this marvelous cast take care of the work for them.

Fresh off his return to the dramatic arena on the newly acclaimed HBO series “The Deuce,” Academy Award nominee James Franco (“127 Hours”) may earn a second with his eerily irresistible portrayal of the aloof and mysterious cult filmmaker Tommy Wiseau. Based on a book The Disaster Artist: My Life Inside The Room, the Greatest Bad Film Ever Made by Greg Sestero and Tom Bissell, the film depicts the true, but unlikely bromance between a sheepish aspiring actor, Sestero (decently played by James’ brother, Dave Franco, “The Little Hours”) and the blunt yet deflective and ambitious filmmaker, Tommy Wiseau.

In 2003, Wiseau made his directorial, written, and screen debut with the independent release of his film, “The Room.” The film was never a critical or financial hit, but it gained a rabid fanbase over the years because of the film’s confusingly poor acting and filmmaking (audiences routinely throw spoons at the screen). The Disaster Artist explores the “it’s so bad, it’s good” idiosyncrasies of “The Room,” reinforcing its place as one of the greatest cult phenomena in modern film history. At the center of this story’s curious intrigue is its enigmatic auteur, Tommy Wiseau, a man who denies (in Trump-ish fashion) his obvious foreign accent and old age.

Other than a few moments where his own accent breaks through, Franco orchestrates a near dead-on embodiment of Wiseau, comfortably invoking Wiseau’s boisterous, unpredictable laugh, stiff facial mannerisms (with makeup help), and groggily voice. It’s arguable that Franco’s co-star and younger sibling Dave is miscast as Sestero since an actor like Armie Hammer more closely resembles him. Yet Dave Franco captures the innocent essence of Greg Sestero which brings warmth and heart to the film’s core drama — Wiseau and Sestero’s friendship. This aspect was deftly written by the touted young adult/rom-com screenwriting duo Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber (“The Fault in Our Stars,” “The Spectacular Now” and “Paper Towns”).

Unlike Wiseau’s convoluting choices to stick random supporting actors in “The Room,” Franco and team are wise to keep its secondary players purposely minor (such as Greg’s girlfriend, Amber, and script supervisor, Sandy Schklair, effectively played by Alison Brie, “How to Be Single” and Seth Rogen, “Neighbors”). These performances and the film’s startling cameos don’t detract, but enhance the film’s most crucial relational dynamic for greater dramatic effect. And Franco’s cinematic style, while ordinarily straightforward, aids well in capturing the growth of this tight bonding.

So, this holiday season, cheer yourself up with a film about jealousy, insecurity, and heartbreak. For anyone who’s dared to dream, The Disaster Artist may provide inspiration; reminding you to do what makes you happy, even when everyone else thinks it sucks. Ironically, Franco created the film Wiseau hoped “The Room” would be, a well-made, classic Hollywood love story. Franco’s film ingeniously celebrates popcorn and arthouse movies, and amazingly rewards its audience with a re-imaging of sorts of “Ed Wood.” It’s a movie no one thought was needed until it arrived.

Witherspoon toils as Alice Kinney, a 40-year old single mother of two bright young daughters, whose life takes a turn when she separates from her New York City-based, music executive husband Austen (Michael Sheen, “Brad’s Status”). In doing so, she decides to leave the Big Apple with her children and return to her charming childhood home back in Los Angeles where she was pampered by her show business parents. Here Alice figures to get a fresh start, re-inventing herself as an interior decorator, but she has her finances to consider while establishing her freelancing career.

Clearly, the setup is to establish Alice as an affable soul who is open-minded and hopeful — the failed marriage and turning the big 40 are nothing more than obstacles for her to overcome. Which of course, she does as her fortunes change when she gives the green light for three aspiring filmmakers to stay under her roof at the guest house. These guys are special and pass the test because a.) they are in the “business” and that makes her movie-making parents extremely relevant again and b.) they are considered rather charismatic by Alice’s mother, Lillian (veteran Candice Bergen, “Bride Wars”) — an approval that is rather impressive. The trio of roommates consists of screenwriter George (Jon Rudnitsky, “Patchwork”), actor Teddy (Nat Wolff, “Death Note”) and director Harry (Pico Alexander, “A Most Violent Year”). In particular, the 27-year old Harry, despite the age difference, tickles Alice’s fancy as he reminds her so much of her late filmmaker father.

The ultimate problem with Home Again is that the farcical set-up is bland and the characterizations feel stiff and indifferent. Meyers-Shyer plays it safe and is reluctant to allow any radical staging of outlandish behavior to jump-start this formulaic romantic romp. As previously mentioned Witherspoon’s Alice appears restrained and boorish in staid material that should be inspired by a tumultuous life-changing shakeup. The May-December romancing between Alice and Harry has all the pop of an old “Love, American Style” rerun. Only Bergen’s star-maker “Mommy Dearest” Lillian and Witherspoon’s on-screen precocious offspring, Isabel (Lola Flanery, “The Mist” TV series) and Rosie (Eden Grace Redfield, “The Glass Castle”), breathe any passable energy into this witless vehicle.

Reese Witherspoon has shown us that she can, with indescribable ease and poise, portray a woman who is three-dimensional in perplexity — “Wild,” “Water for Elephants,” and the heralded HBO series “Big Little Lies” are proof of that. It is too bad that she could not transfer that fine-tuned feminine persona to Meyer-Shyer’s toothless narrative on transitional womanhood, bewildering motherhood, marital failure, cutesy (but comes off as creepy) age gap romancing, convenient affluence and winking at Hollywood’s synthetic importance. Silly-minded and relentlessly cloying, Home Again is not a home worth returning to.