‘Nothing to hide’: Demi Moore, naked and liberated at 62

And, he added, “she is one of the most emotionally intelligent people that you’ll ever meet. Whenever I have an emotional dilemma or I need advice, I do not go to my shrink – I go to her”.

With The Substance, Moore is the Oscars’ best actress front-runner, too, for playing Elisabeth Sparkle, a onetime A-lister turned TV fitness instructor who is unscrupulously put out to pasture for the Hollywood sin of existing past 50. Her desperate solution is to inject herself with the mysterious concoction of the movie’s title, and birth – through a gaping wound in her spine – a more youthful self, named Sue (Margaret Qualley). They’re supposed to switch weekly, while the other vegetates. But in the battle for nubile flesh – and thus popularity – Elisabeth loses, grotesquely so.

The Substance is a bit of a genre-buster: Moore has described the project as a cross between Oscar Wilde’s classic, The Picture of Dorian Gray; the 1992 black comedy Death Becomes Her; and a Jane Fonda workout video. It’s vying for best picture as well, and French film-maker Coralie Fargeat was nominated for directing and for her script.

It’s mostly sparked conversation for its none-too-subtle message. But Moore’s singular performance – which also draws on her real-life past as a sex symbol whose form was both worshipped and castigated – is not just metaphor. It is enthrallingly physical, a feat of wordless emotional range: She has comparatively little dialogue; is hardly onscreen with a co-star (at least when both are conscious); and communicates mostly through tight shots, often gazing at her own reflection – “which is really not the most comfortable place to be,” Moore said. “We look for what’s wrong.”

The prosthetics that turn her into a wizened creature “were their own mixed bag of tricks,” she added, and “figuring out the logic and the rules, because it’s also a world that doesn’t exist. Like, okay, I’m in this totally aged, degraded body, but I can haul ass down a hallway”.

Until its premiere at the Cannes Film Festival in May, she added, she wasn’t even sure the movie would work (it wound up winning best screenplay). And she was immediately indelible, in unexpected ways: Moore’s husky voice is one of her trademarks. “I was astonished at how powerful she was in silence,” Murphy said.

In an email, Qualley gushed about her co-star. “Demi is the magic blend of deep consideration and the ability to courageously live in the present,” she said. She learned something every day; their collaboration was “one of the great gifts of my life,” Qualley added.

The production, which stretched over five-and-a-half months in France, was also among the most strenuous of Moore’s 40-year career, she said. G.I. Jane, the 1997 Ridley Scott action drama in which she buffed up to play a Navy SEAL-esque recruit, “was physically very challenging,” Moore said, “but it was very straightforward. This was emotionally and physically draining every day – every day. Even the simplest scenes.”

And yet it was the leap she sought, after stepping back from acting intermittently over the years: first, soon after her ’90s heyday, to raise the three daughters she shares with Bruce Willis, her ex-husband; and then to take stock of herself.

One thing that emerged from this period, alongside a renewed focus on sobriety, was her unflinching, bestselling 2019 memoir, Inside Out. In it, among many other traumas, she details the disordered eating and over-exercising she engaged in for years – she once put a lock on her refrigerator – and how she emerged with a far less fractured sense of self.

The Substance role was not handed to Moore; Fargeat considered other actors and it took a half-dozen meetings between the two to finalise the casting. In one of those encounters, Moore shared a copy of her book (written with Ariel Levy, of The New Yorker). It was a plain-on-the-page vehicle, Moore said, to show how much Fargeat’s story resonated with her – and, she added, “not from a place of the wound, but from the place that actually had healing”.

Moore was not interested in litigating blame. “Look, women being marginalised at a certain age, particularly in the entertainment industry, is the least-new information of the entire movie,” she said.

Neither was she only highlighting what she called “that painful state that I think we’ve all experienced, because we’re human, which is of compare and despair”. What drew her to the screenplay was the way those impulses were turned inward, violently. “Because I can look and say there is nothing that anyone else has done to me, that is worse than what I have done to myself.”

There were vast gulfs between her and the lonesome, career-obsessed Elisabeth, she said. But, she added: “Emotionally, it wasn’t that big of a reach. I really did understand her.”

Moore escaped – or persevered through – a turbulent, peripatetic childhood, striking out on her own at 16. She was a soap opera regular by 19, then made her name on the Brat Pack movies like St. Elmo’s Fire, and became a superstar with a string of ’90s hits including Ghost, A Few Good Men and Indecent Proposal. Earning a US$12.5 million ($21.9 million) paycheck for Striptease, in 1996, made her the highest-paid actor in the world, but did not engender goodwill. (She acquired the sneering nickname “Gimme Moore”. Willis, who then made even bigger bank as an action hero, got no such derision.)

Another flashpoint came with her 1991 Vanity Fair cover, photographed by Annie Leibovitz. Moore was seven months pregnant with her second daughter and Leibovitz snapped a shot of her, bejewelled and naked, ostensibly as an end-of-day family photo. Long before celebrities gleefully bared their bumps, Moore’s elegant flaunt remains one of her proudest achievements, she said in her memoir. “It helped move the needle culturally, whether I intended it to or not,” Moore wrote. “To help women love themselves and their natural shapes, that’s a remarkable and gratifying thing to have accomplished, particularly for someone like me who spent years doing battle with her body.”

The idea that she bared her skin – in movies or elsewhere – out of confidence was a long-held public misperception, she said. “I was so uncomfortable. I was trying to just find ways of overcoming it.”

These days, Moore is trying to absorb the critical and industry adulation for The Substance, without weighing it too heavily. “Whatever happens, I just keep focusing on remembering not to make it mean too much, but also not to make it mean too little,” she said. “But I can enjoy all of it.”

She seemed to turbocharge her Oscar campaign with her win at the Golden Globes last month. (She had been nominated before, but never won.) In her stunned speech, she mentioned a producer who negated her as “a popcorn actor,” and also repeated some wisdom from a woman she met decades ago, who told her blankly that she would never be good enough – “but you could know the value of your worth, if you put down the measuring stick”.

“It just hit me so deeply,” Moore said, as she nuzzled her 1-pound micro Chihuahua, Pilaf, the most favoured of her six mini dogs. (Don’t fret: “They all have it pretty good.” They all sleep in her bed; they travel; a timid dachshund was on his way to meet with a trainer, for a confidence boost. “Literally everything is built around these silly dogs.”)

The Globes also introduced a factoid about Moore, that she is “an avid doll collector,” with a separate residence “for her 2000+ vintage dolls”. In her book, she says she started amassing toys when her children were young, to make up for what she missed in her own childhood. Her assemblage extends beyond just figurines – she has miniatures and oversize pieces, quilts and oddities. “I am a curiosity collector,” she said.

Imperfections, she has learned, are worth noticing.

“Not that I like being scared and vulnerable,” she said, “but I know it’s a rich place to be. And that I always am better on the other side.”

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

Written by: Melena Ryzik

Photographs by: Ryan Pfluger

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