My first body horror film experience

ON THE SUBSTANCE

It’s true! Absolutely f***ing insane.

Everyone is at work or at school and I’ve squeezed everything I could squeeze out of being a stay-at-home mom and the delicious solitude I’ve been sinking my teeth in these past few years has turned sour. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I can’t stand it. I’ve been baking too much and stuffing my face with chocolate chip cookies. My gut is really pissed off about this. Especially about the raw dough. I could write or start a new project but I don’t know what. I could fold the clean underwear I keep moving from chair to sofa to bed and back to the dryer, but I don’t want to because folding underwear is incredibly sad.

I don’t know how to relax anymore but I don’t want to relax. I am dressed. I even drew cat eyes on my face with liquid liner. They are perfect. I update my LinkedIn profile for the first time in years (“Open to opportunities”). I apply for jobs. I think about all the things I won’t be able to do once I start working again, like go to the movies in the middle of the day.

It’s settled, then. I will go to the movies in the middle of the day.

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It’s 1 PM and the movie theatre is empty.

Great.

On a positive note I can choose the perfect seat. Every single one is free. I sit at the very center. In the middle of middles. I didn’t get popcorn because of the cookies.

I’m looking forward to seeing the new Demi Moore movie. I loved her nineties movies, especially G.I. Jane. Now that I think of it, I’ve only ever seen G.I. Jane. I’ve never seen Ghost. I love her long hair. I’ve been growing out mine since the first pandemic summer. Or was it the second summer?

I wait for the movie to start and then it hits me. I’ve never seen a proper horror film. Does Final Destination really count? If you watch it on mute it feels like a comedy. I love witch and vampire stories, but spooky isn’t hardcore horror. I’ve never sat alone in a theatre to watch something that is designed to awaken your deepest fears and my arm pits start tingling.

And then it equally hits me that nobody knows where I am and what if a grim reaper appears out of nowhere with a sickle? Nobody knows anything and nobody will hear me scream because I’m in an empty movie theatre in the middle of the day just off Highway 40 in Montreal. And why would I text my husband to tell him where I am—he’s in New York—he can’t change the outcome should I meet my demise. I keep saying I want to take karaté classes but I never do. I feel it in my bones that I have combat skills potential (Napoleon syndrome?) and it will be my fault if I can’t kick a monster’s ass because I never took the time to learn how.

Should I leave the movie theatre? A man walks in. Then a couple, a man and a woman, enters with two soda and popcorn combos. No. I will stay. I’m overreacting as usual. Always imagining all the ways my life could get cut short. We’re all wearing black hoodies. I wonder if it’s the horror genre’s uniform. I feel part of a group.

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We’re in the middle of Act III of The Substance and I put my hands up to block the screen. I squirm and bring my feet up on the seat so I can curl into a ball. I don’t know what to do. The scene is so disturbing I perform a body scan to check for nausea. No. I’m not going to vomit. But I need to do something. Scream? Cry? Something needs to come out so I start laughing hysterically. It feels good.

I keep thinking about the screenplay. How it’s written. The format, the structure.

INT. TELEVISION STUDIO - EVENING

The deformed monster is on the stage. The audience is horrified. Then, just when you think things couldn’t get more disturbing, a giant tit emerges from a hole in the monster’s shoulder. Sweaty and raw, it hangs from the monster’s body with the help of an umbilical-like cord, then falls to the ground like a discarded creature.

It helps to think of this movie as words on a page. Just somebody’s creative trip brought to life. I will never watch this movie again because it’s too much but I’m also aware that it’s very good in the most twisted, sickening way. Because deep down I know that real monsters exist and they don’t carry sickles. They don’t grow weird tits either. You can’t beat real monsters with a karaté kick.

Real monsters whisper lies in your ear when you’re alone and nobody’s looking.

The movie ends and the lights come on. The room is silent.

“Jesus Christ,” someone mutters.

I agree.

I exit the theatre and all I can think of is this: it’s really time to get a job.