Over the summer I was at a dinner party in the Hamptons when a friend of a certain age—still a society staple but not getting as many invites as she used to—suddenly pounded her fist on the table and screamed: “I AM INVISIBLE! EVERY WOMAN OVER 60 IS!”
It was awkward and unexpected. We had been discussing the vagaries of traffic. And here she was, furious not only with society, but also at her younger self for not setting her up better for her dotage, by providing her with a great husband or some amazing kids. Almost every woman at the table—there were 12 of us, and at 50, I was the youngest—appeared shocked and embarrassed.
But in the weeks since, most of them privately conceded that they, too, feel passed over, overlooked, not seen—despite the many surgeries they’ve had or the $10,000 outfits they’ve bought. And I—though not yet past the six-decade mark—have to admit my friend wasn’t far off the mark.
I work in TV, on air for NewsNation. So it’s pretty hard for me to ignore the fact that our culture reveres youth and ignores—or shuns—women after they hit middle age. Every woman in the industry remembers the five female anchors, all over 40, who sued NY1 because they felt they were being gradually “pushed off the air.” (In the end, they settled.) And I cover the entertainment industry, so I need to look not ancient. To be fair, my network has not, nor ever would, tell me this, but when the 5D cameras turn on and the many bright lights shine onto my face, I am aware of it illuminating every crevasse.
As I learned in the Hamptons, such things are embarrassing to discuss in polite society. So I applaud the French director Coralie Fargeat, who has just made the inner turmoil of me and my friends into a movie—a cinematic howl of outrage at the position in which an attractive yet aging woman finds herself. It came out this week.
The Substance is an insane, hilariously ghastly tragicomedy that’s billed as a horror film. Demi Moore, 61, plays an actress named Elisabeth Sparkle, who once won an Oscar but is now heading up a Jazzercise show (think: Jane Fonda). She is wealthy, alone and, in an industry that reveres youth, about to be put out to pasture.
The industry that Elisabeth and I both work in is personified in this film by an unctuous, preening TV executive whose name is Harvey. (He’s played by Dennis Quaid.) When he thinks Elisabeth is out of earshot, Harvey says things like: “We need young, hot—now!! How long has the old bitch been able to stick around? She got an Oscar? For what? King Kong, the original?” Naturally, Harvey appears to be much, much older than Elisabeth. (Quaid is 70.)
Anyway, Harvey axes Elisabeth from the Jazzercise show on her 50th birthday. (His parting gift is a cookbook his “wife loved!”) On the way home, she sees a poster of herself being torn down, and is so transfixed that she doesn’t notice an oncoming truck, which sideswipes her. In the hospital, despite having no injuries, she starts to sob, prompting an incredibly good-looking, young male doctor to slip a note about “The Substance” into her pocket.
Without giving too much away: Elisabeth makes the deal with the unknown devil and starts taking The Substance, which transforms her into a new, gorgeous, young version of herself called Sue. But there’s a catch. She only gets to be Sue half the time. Every other week, she goes back to being sad, old Elisabeth. The Substance literally splits her in two.
This premise might be fantastical, but all women consider some form of The Substance in one way or another. Expensive creams and potions. Probiotics that swear to keep your bowels aged 20. Ozempic. It is the choice between acceptance or denial, resignation or rage.
In the first decade or so of adulthood, thanks to good genes and no thanks to my smoking habit, I skated by without having to confront this choice. But I was both eternally conscious that I shouldn’t look “exhausted” on camera, and also Botox-curious. I gave in during my 30s, and became a true devotee in my 40s; now, I receive touch-up jabs one to two times a year.
And in the last few years, things have amped up. I’ve had two lots of eyelid surgery to correct some droopy brows and puffy bags. If you must know, the experience was gorier than The Substance. I saw half my eyelids lying like fat, bloodied little worms on my doctor’s tray as I left the room afterwards—literally leaving parts of myself behind.
The nonsurgical facelift—I’ve had one of those, too—was less gory, but I was awake for the whole thing. I had semi-stalked Dr. Jon Turk, my preferred youth dealer, to procure one. I grimaced as surgical threads were put in my face, literally lifting it, marionette style, until I appeared 10 years younger. Thanks to lidocaine, I didn’t feel anything except Dr. Turk pulling, prodding, and poking, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. Until I saw the incredible results. People would stop me afterward and say, “Wow! You look fantastic! Did you get some sleep? What pill are you taking?” Internally, I’d be kvelling.
Basically: I am not one to go gentle into that good night.
I have availed myself of many of the “solutions” to aging that capitalism has provided. It’s hard to ignore their existence. I am inundated on social media and Google Search with ads for things claiming to be cures for menopausal weight gain, mood swings, and whatever other hellish ailment women over 50 must suffer.
Turning into a schizophrenic monster for lack of estrogen? How about this patch!
Dead between your legs? There’s a cream for that!
Starting to resemble the bearded lady? Try this at-home, totally safe, spa-quality laser!
Thousands of dollars, several second-degree burns, and just a few semi-psychotic flip-outs later, my kitchen and bathroom counters look like something straight out of a nursing home. The amount of supplements I take, I’m shocked I have room in my stomach to eat anything at all. But apparently I do, because I’ve gained 20 pounds, and I can’t seem to shed them no matter how many Peloton rides I book or juice fasts I try. My scale has now been relegated to a corner of my bedroom I rarely visit.
In short, I live in a body I no longer recognize, a body that feels like it’s actively turning against me. It feels like I’m in a horror film.
So Fargeat, director of The Substance, has chosen the very best genre to reveal how the 50-year-old woman wages war on her actual self. Look away now if you don’t want a mild and unsurprising spoiler: Elisabeth Sparkle and her alter ego, Sue, eventually start trying to sabotage each other. Elisabeth eats like a Midwest trucker to put pounds on Sue, while Sue becomes addicted to The Substance—which has grim consequences for Elisabeth.
This film understands that the aging woman’s rage is directed not just toward society, Hollywood, or your feckless, unfaithful mirror—but toward herself, every version of it, past and present. And it’s a feeling that can destroy you. The Substance concludes—another spoiler alert—with Elisabeth’s body literally falling apart on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, on top of her own star no less, only to be swept up by a street sweeper.
I applaud The Substance because it does not sugarcoat. It understands that life gets harder, not easier, when you realize you’re getting older. It depicts the bind in which women find ourselves: the pressure we’re under, the ghastly battle we wage daily with ourselves, and the horrific ways in which we torture our bodies and our minds in the search for youth, success, and acceptance. All to end with the inevitable: death.
I’m calling Dr. Turk in the morning. And then my shrink.
Paula Froelich is the entertainment expert for NewsNation. She hosts the show “The Scoop” on YouTube. Follow her on Instagram—you won’t regret it.
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