Death Becomes Her (1992)
The films of Robert Zemeckis are known for their technical innovations and reliance on special effects. His latest effort, Death Becomes Her, doesn’t disappoint in this regard; he happily delves into the latest and greatest in computer and bluescreen technologies, applying them to humorously macabre visuals such as Meryl Streep’s head being twisted backwards and Goldie Hawn having a gaping hole in her stomach. Since we’re not dealing with relentless gore, it’s admittedly a lot of fun to look at, especially when the two women get into an all-out shovel fight. At one point, the spade of Streep’s shovel breaks off, and Streep suddenly throws the pointed wooden handle at Hawn; rather than impale her, it simply passes through her stomach hole and buries itself in the couch behind her.
Most wouldn’t consider the film a fairy tale. I myself hesitate to call it that; even with its heightened displays of dark magic, it operates more on the level of a sitcom, with a contrived premise that allows for one-liners, zingers, and physical gags, some working better than others. That being said, it’s cautionary in nature in the same way that fairy tales are. And by the end, a moral has been given. It can arguably be considered a zombie movie, even though the zombies in this case don’t shuffle around like drunks, don’t groan inhumanly, and have absolutely no interest in eating brains. What it undisputedly can be called is a comedy – a dark, twisted, and ultimately ironic comedy about the terrible price of attaining eternal youth.
Streep and Hawn respectively play actress Madeline Ashton and aspiring writer Helen Sharp, who have been best friends and, paradoxically, bitter rivals since before the events of the film. After a condensed opening sequence spanning fourteen years – during which Ashton steals from Sharp her plastic-surgeon fiancé, Ernest Menville (Bruce Willis) – we delve into the story proper, kick-started by the fact that both women have restored their youth and beauty by drinking a magical glowing pink potion. It was given to them by an eccentric, enigmatic, very scantily-clad European temptress (Isabella Rossellini), whose gothic, palatial Beverly Hills estate perfectly compliments her Old Hollywood-level of theatricality.
The problem is that her potion works too well; the restoration of youth comes at the expense of immortality, even under circumstances that would normally be fatal. Such is the fate of Ashton, who’s pushed down the stairs by her drunken and resentful husband, and Sharp, whom Ashton shoots at point-blank range with an elephant gun. Menville, using his recently-acquired skills as a mortician, repairs both women to picturesque levels of beauty – although it very quickly becomes obvious that dead bodies coated in flesh-colored spray paint (Menville’s unorthodox but effective substitute for ordinary makeup) require maintenance. A lot of maintenance. The kind of maintenance that must be provided not just for a mere lifetime, but for all eternity.
As much as I enjoyed the morbid humor of this film, and as much as I appreciated the message of living the one life you have rather than getting stuck striving for immortality, it admittedly gets off to a slow, meandering start. We open with an entertaining Broadway musical number and then transition to a series of overly-brief vignettes intended to mark not only the passage of time but also the progression of the characters. It isn’t until Streep’s character seeks out Rossellini’s that the film finally gains momentum and becomes ghoulishly fun. Aside from the fight mentioned at the start of this review, I was also greatly amused by a scene revealing that many of Rossellini’s clients are celebrities we thought long dead.
As much as I hate to admit it, as it makes me sound like someone who prefers style over substance, I also allowed myself to get lost in the special effects, which I’m sure required months of painstaking work. As Who Framed Roger Rabbit proved, Zemeckis is one of the few current directors equal to such a task; he wants his films to not only tell engaging stories but also look good while doing so, and if that means spending millions of dollars and overworking hundreds of craftsmen, technicians, and computer programmers, then so be it. I suppose there’s something to be said for that, especially when it comes to films like Death Becomes Her. It is, after all, a strange and fantastic story, and such stories call for strange and fantastic imagery. The talent that went into the film doesn’t go unappreciated.
