Death Becomes Her Review: I Watched a Neck Snap in HD and Still Asked for More

Two women, one potion, and a lifetime that refuses to end. Death Becomes Her explores what happens when perfection becomes permanent.

What the hell did I just watch?

I mean that in the most respectful, slightly traumatized, and deeply entertained way possible. Death Becomes Her (1992) is not just a film, it’s an experience, a fever dream, a glitter-dusted descent into the darkest corners of vanity, immortality, and camp. And I? I am forever changed.

Let’s begin with the basics: imagine you drank a potion that made you forever young. Your skin stays flawless. Your hair never turns grey. You never die. Sounds amazing, right?

Now imagine: your neck snaps in the most dramatic, ragdoll way possible. Your body crumples like a deck chair. You fall down the stairs and your limbs bend in directions no human bones should go. And yet… you live. You walk. You argue about makeup.

Yeah. That’s this movie.

Directed by Robert Zemeckis (yes, Back to the Future Zemeckis), Death Becomes Her is the cinematic lovechild of gothic horror, satire, and whatever chaotic brilliance exists in the space between glamor and grotesque. It stars Meryl Streep and Goldie Hawn as frenemies-turned-immortals, with Bruce Willis as the overwhelmed plastic surgeon caught in their eternal blood feud. The trio deliver performances that are not just good, they are unhinged art.

At work I often try to decode what makes a story stick. This one doesn’t just stick, it stabs, sears, and sparkles while doing it. The screenplay is outrageous in the best way. The direction? Campy and calculated. The set design? A Barbie dreamhouse. And the fashion? Meryl’s wardrobe alone could inspire a couture line themed “Undead but Make it Vogue.”

I don’t know what was more shocking the plot twists or how deeply I needed this in my life.

The final scene, where the two leads are practically held together by spray paint and tape, is equal parts hilarious and horrifying. Their bodies are breaking, their minds unraveling, and somehow it still feels like a high-concept art piece dressed in drag queen energy. It’s so clever. So weird. So brilliant. I actually think watching this movie made me smarter and dumber at the same time.

And let’s talk about Meryl Streep. No, actually, let’s worship Meryl Streep. This is not just a performance. It’s a masterclass in weaponized elegance. She plays Madeline Ashton like a woman sculpted by vanity and held together by rage and Chanel No. 5. Her line delivery? So sharp it could slice through glass. Her physical comedy? Impeccable. The moment her neck snaps and she casually twists it back into place like it’s a minor inconvenience? Oscar-worthy.

There’s something devilishly brilliant about how Meryl balances the satire with real emotional depth. Yes, it’s camp. Yes, it’s absurd. But beneath it all, there’s a beating heart of fear. The fear of becoming invisible. The fear of aging out of relevance. The fear of no longer being adored. She doesn’t just play Madeline. She inhabits her. You can see every insecurity masked behind each snarky line and every sequined robe.

And visually? Oh, she’s everything. Every outfit is a moment. Every entrance is a statement. I want her wardrobe, her walk, her smirk, and maybe even her unholy potion. Watching her in this film feels like watching a diva perform on a stage built entirely of marble and mirrors. And I loved every second of it.

Now let’s talk about Goldie Hawn, because oh my god. Her performance is a masterclass in controlled chaos. That scene with the shotgun? Legendary. She plays Helen with just the right balance of crazy and genuine hurt, giving the character an emotional center beneath all the glossy madness. Her physical transformation is wild, but it’s her emotional transformation that really caught me off guard. Goldie doesn’t just match Meryl she challenges her, scene by scene, with equal wit, venom, and vulnerability.

Watching her evolve from a bitter, broken ex into a vengeance-fueled, stylish ghost of her former self was honestly a spiritual experience. I wasn’t prepared for how good she is in this. She's not just a comedic force, she's the acidic glue holding this twisted story together.

And Bruce Willis? Let’s not forget the man caught in the middle of this immortal, decaying mess. Bruce plays Ernest Menville, a twitchy, insecure, emotionally imploding plastic surgeon, and somehow turns that chaos into comedy gold. This is Willis like you’ve never seen him before. Forget action-hero bravado. Here, he’s bumbling, sweating, panicking, and spiraling with every shattered bone and flying insult. And it works.

He brings a nervous, almost tragic humanity to the film that makes the absurdity land even harder. His character is constantly in free fall, and you can feel him unraveling scene by scene. Honestly, it takes serious talent to be the normal one in a movie this insane. Bruce understood the assignment, delivered it with trembling hands, and absolutely nailed it.

Special mention to Isabella Rossellini. Because how could I not talk about her? She doesn’t just enter the movie. She descends into it. Her screen presence is hypnotic. The voice, the posture, the glimmering regality . And those necklaces? They don’t accessorize her. They obey her. She plays Lisle, the potion’s gatekeeper, with such effortless decadence that you fully believe immortality is a luxury only she could offer. Honestly, Isabella Rossellini is less of a character and more of a cinematic event. I would take that potion just to be in the same room as her.

I am devastated that I didn’t watch this sooner. But maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe my brain needed to reach the right level of emotional instability to fully get it. Because now? Now I see it for what it is: a cult classic that belongs in a time capsule labeled “Do Not Open Unless You’re Fabulous.”

If you’ve never watched Death Becomes Her, do it. But do it with wine, dramatic lighting, and a willingness to lose your mind in the most fabulous way possible.

Thank you, to the person who made me watch this. I’ll never be the same. I owe you my sanity.

One-liner wrap-up:

This movie ruined my life in the most glamorous way possible. And I say that with love.