Death Becomes Her
Playbill: Death Becomes Her
Overall Grade: A-
Taking a cult ‘90s movie already drenched in camp and turning it into a Broadway spectacle was always a bold move—but Death Becomes Her delivers in spades. It's zanier, glossier, and more gleefully outrageous than the film, and best of all, it doesn’t hold back.
You know the tone from the opening number, “For the Gaze,” where Megan Hilty, channeling everything from Liza Minnelli to Garland glam, kicks things off with big sequins and bigger attitude. That performance even made it to the Tonys for good reason—it’s showy, sassy, and it sets the bar high right from the curtain.
Hilty and Jennifer Simard as Helen Sharp embody frenemies perfected: their chemistry is electric, and their comic timing is a joy to behold. They are Broadway gold—switching seamlessly between catty barbs and dramatic declarations, all while supported by witty duets and banter that land hard. Simard’s transformation from plain writer to vengeful glam goddess is theater magic.
Michelle Williams’ intro as the potion-giving Viola is hypnotic. Backed by her dancers in soft-focus lighting, she delivers an ethereal, lounge-y presence that perfectly contrasts the bombastic energy of the leads.
The guy in the middle—Ernest—is played by Bud Weber tonight (instead of Christopher Sieber), and at first he feels a bit underpowered amid Broadway royalty. But he grows on you, especially during “‘Til Death” and his quirky, puppeteered “The Plan” in Act II. He finds his footing at just the right moment.
Effect-wise, Death Becomes Her does not disappoint. The gunshot, the head-tilt, the mortal falls—every campy bit of body mayhem is staged with gleeful precision. You feel every snap and crack, and the gag reflex is strong. Jennifer Simard’s “Hit Me” after taking that shotgun blast is gloriously meme-worthy—no question why that performance went viral.
I loved the sets—lavish curtains, artful projections, and props as flashy as you expect from a Tony-nominated show. The production is alive, breathing camp in every corner, from costumes to choreography by Christopher Gattelli.
The only thing keeping it from a solid A or A+? The music. Julia Mattison and Noel Carey’s score moves the story and lands several jokes, but none of the songs stick in your head afterward. It’s effective, sure—but it’s missing that one or two earworms to carry you out of the theater humming. And with so many powerhouse sopranos belting away, the high register can feel constant—impressive, but a bit exhausting.
Still, if you’re in the mood for a night of unapologetic camp, dark humor, weepy-to-dead drama, and electric performances, Death Becomes Her is the show. A fun, fabulous blast of Broadway bravado—it brought my house down, even if I didn’t leave humming a tune.