"DEATH BECOMES HER:" Ho-Ho-Ho But Why?

In the macabre tradition of departed 90s-flickers that reincarnate to sing as Broadway musicals, often inexplicably — from Pretty Woman: The Musical to Mrs. Doubtfire (and all their baleful 80s counterparts) — Broadway’s corporate producer-resuscitators (Stephen Spielberg and Kate Capshaw among them) have brought forth upon us Death Becomes Her. The musical.

It is well-made, one-note, at times inanely funny, but ultimately (for me) exhausting, and utterly pointless. ‘Why?’ my head kept singing, long before the music ended.

You’ll remember (or not) the 1992 screen original starring Meryl Streep and Goldie Hawn. They fought, they feuded, they died but never died, to fight and feud forever. I actually didn’t remember anything about the movie except something to do with a decapitation. The formulaic film Death Becomes Her was fundamentally Beetlejuice for dames, and so is the formulaic musical it has inspired — a dupe of Beetlejuice The Musical for… well, you get the idea. It’s all more of the same.

Details: Megan Hilty re-embodies Meryl Streep as Madeline Ashton, the ageless movie star. She sings beautifully, dances nimbly, pratfalls passably and hits her marks and punchlines like a pro, before losing steam in the second act as her character does. Jennifer Simard revivifies Goldie Hawn as the mousy Helen Sharp, Madeline’s bestie/worstie. Simard sings, hoofs, clowns and decapitates with pizazz. She and Hilty seem to genuinely dislike each other just a little, which adds a frisson of unfakery to the very faux facsimile proceedings. I am not gossiping here, just reporting.

Music: In a nifty twist, the co-composers for Death Becomes Her are newcomers with talent — Julia Mattison and Noel Carey, whom I would characterize as aficionados of the smarty-pants school of musical theater; exhaustively self-referential, with sound rhyming skills and a flare for tuneful hooks. Nothing in their score lingers in my noggin’, but much, in the moment, made me smile. I look forward to re-encountering their music again in a musical that matters more.

Book: Writer Marco Pennette sold his first script to the sitcom Kate & Allie while still an undergrad at NYU. This is how his Playbill bio commences, and you can take it from there. I say this with all due respect because Death Becomes Her is often laugh-out-loud funny, but I personally do not need to hear another plastic surgery joke for the rest of my life and after-life.

Director/Choreographer: Christopher Gattelli’s work here is very showy and in one’s face. The disco chic of his inhumanly svelte and supple dancers is a wonder to behold from their first explosive entrance, but diminished (again, for me) to nondescript as the evening degressed and Death would not die, just kept on recycling.

Sets: Designer Derek McLane can do absolutely anything. In Death Becomes Her he does big and loud, visually. You get what you pay for.

Costumes: Paul Tazewell can do anything Derek McLane can do, but with fabric. And, here, he has.

For my money (oh, that word) the best thing about Death Becomes Her is Christopher Sieber, in the thankless role of straight man to the two ladies; a husband to each and then some. Even in his broadest moments (and there are many) Sieber manages to be intimate and precise. It is one hell of a performance, both physically and emotively. Give the guy a Kevin Klein Award.

Remember him?