Then, things quickly take a surreal turn: She discovers tufts of white hair on her lower back, and then a small bump. When she prods it, pus leaks out and a small gray tail emerges. Later, she grows six extra teats on her stomach. Adams only shrugs—after everything that motherhood, and womanhood, has already inflicted on her character’s body, nothing seems to surprise her anymore.
Like The Substance, Nightbitch delights in the flaws and occasional disgustingness of its leading lady’s physical form, revealing a more raw and vulnerable side of a Hollywood fixture who we may otherwise only see as an impossibly elegant, almost mythical creature floating down red carpets.
Naturally, it goes without saying that Moore, Kidman, and Adams are all exceptionally beautiful and privileged. In truth, nothing about them is attainable, but their willingness to delve into the less palatable, and sometimes downright ugly, realities of growing older as a woman—the agism, the self-doubt, the endless upkeep, the frantic desire to keep up with your peers and make it all look easy in a bid to meet the expectations the world thrusts upon you—is significant, too. It confirms to women in their 40s, 50s, 60s, and beyond—those who’ve always been chronically underserved by the film industry, and given idealized representations of themselves, if anything at all—that many of their most painful, private experiences are entirely universal. There’s no need for them to be perfect, and it isn’t something they should have to aspire to.
So, I hope more truly wacky and challenging releases follow in the footsteps of these three firecrackers. I expect it’ll take decades for us to fully dismantle our existing notions of beauty on screen, but at least we’re slowly moving in the right direction.
