Mid-life’s a bitch…then you don’t die. Where Back to the Future is going it won’t need roads (but perhaps boats as international productions, including a cruise ship one, open once it closes at the Winter Garden in January) but here comes Death Becomes Her to take its place in the RobertZemeckisverse on the main stem. A more modest hit in the summer of 1992 that played like a super-sized episode of the multihyphenate’s concurrent HBO show Tales from the Crypt it has several virtues, notably star turns from dueling frenemies Meryl Streep (as fading star Madeline Ashton) and Goldie Hawn (as frustrated writer Helen Sharp, forever in her shadow), Oscar-winning visual effects, and a sprightly Alan Silvestri score. (Its twisted fountain of youth storyline echoes in the current femme phantasmagoria The Substance.) But it’s also not that great, with third act problems and a weak link in costar Bruce Willis, who stepped in for Kevin Kline, tries hard, and misses as the cosmetic surgeon schlub the gruesome twosome ruthlessly exploit.
Those issues, however, make it a decent candidate for adaptation, something that can be capitalized upon and fixed rather than merely tweaked and imitated. (Think Tootsie, Mrs. Doubtfire, and an endless stream of flop movies-into-musicals.) “Mad” begins the film as a Broadway musical performer, which creates an opening, and the property has acquired a cultish gay following, which creates another. After a spritz of fan service (the curtains and decor at the Lunt-Fontanne are a garish purple and pink, following the movie’s lead, and Isabella Rossellini, its potion-wielding sorceress, contributes the preshow announcement) Death Becomes Her V.2 begins proper with Ashton’s OTT rendition of a punning song-within-her-show (Me Me Me!)…”For the Gaze.” With Smash star Megan Hilty, putting the “broad” back on Broadway (in appearance and comic chops) as Madeline, doing ribald diva impersonations. And we’re off!
The book, by TV writer Marco Pennette, and music and lyrics (by Off Broadway veterans Julia Mattison and Noel Carey) put new flesh on the bones of the storyline. Mad and “Hel” (Jennifer Simard, dry ice to Hilty’s fire), ostensible friends, jealously bitch and bicker about everything, then the former crosses a line by stealing the hapless Ernest (Christopher Sieber) from the latter. Hel goes into a tailspin…then emerges a decade later in Hollywood, with a new book and a revitalized new look. With the shoe on the other foot Mad, lured to the swanky manse of the mysterious Viola Van Horn (Destiny Child’s Michelle Williams), agrees to take a magical potion, which restores her youth and gives her eternal life, with a fine print proviso (she has to vanish after ten years, lest her forever bloom arouse suspicion)–and a real “drop dead” clause. Calamities are irreversible in her deathless state, and a vengeful Hel, with Ernest’s unknowing aid, is itching to visit some upon her. All three are in for some surprises in a zomboid black comedy, now with songs.
Good ones, too, funny and brassy. With the material now in the purview of RuPaul and drag stars it leans into the rowdy bitchiness, going from PG-13 to R in the many jokes, and no attempt has been made to tame it for our allegedly more delicate sensibilities. This is all for the best, and probably how it’s able to sneak in a new character, Mad’s put-upon gay personal assistant Stefan (Josh Lamon), without giving offense. It’s camp in every way, and Hilty and the shape-shifting Simard (she’s different every time I see her) play beyond the balcony and into 46th Street. They’re spectacularly funny and make meals of their numbers, from Mad’s lament for her middle-aged prospects (“Falling Apart”) to Hel’s survey of their dizzy parasitic relationship (“That Was Then, This is Now”). Thanks to a splendid effort by the ideally cast Sieber the character of Ernest is now part of a robust trio, and when given a chance to borrow if not steal the show from the ladies he takes it, with the second act highlight “The Plan.” (In this he has some assistance from chattering lab props; the groundbreaking digital effects of the movie, which led right to Jurassic Park, are cleverly, amusingly recreated by illusions designer Tim Clothier.)
In other respects however this is Death warmed over. Williams’ performance lacks the moonshot high style of Hilty and Simard and falls a bit flat, even in some goddessy outfits from Paul Tazewell (whose costumes are being seen all over the place in the Wicked movie). The refashioned climax is more a Blu-ray alternate swept up from the cutting room floor than a satisfying capper in its own right, but you’re relieved when it gets there–it’s quite a frenetic show and maybe too much over two and a half hours. That said less isn’t more when you’re working in this key, and director and choreographer Christopher Gattelli keeps most of it hopping, with the best deployed ensemble on Broadway, popping in and out of multiple roles that give a show with a half-dozen principals some stage heft. (Derek McLane’s sets and Justin Townsend’s lights accentuate the playful extravagance.)
After three musical misfires in a row (the cluttered A Wonderful World: The Louis Armstrong Musical, the inexplicable Swept Away, an ode to shipwrecked cannibals, and the soon-to-close Tammy Faye, which could have used a magical dollop of camp) it was a relief to stagger into Death Becomes Her, which didn’t corpse on impact. Let’s not press our luck, though, with Zemeckis tuners–to anyone dreaming up Romancing the Stone and Forrest Gump musicals, I beg of you, no.
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