The Price of Perfection: When the Body Becomes a Battlefield. Thoughts on Death Becomes Her: The Musical
Two women in elegant gowns amidst swirling purple clouds, holding a flask and candlestick. A playful nod to creative healing.

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Two women in elegant gowns amidst swirling purple clouds, holding a flask and candlestick. A playful nod to creative healing.

There’s something uniquely uncomfortable about watching a woman sing her heart out while slowly falling apart—physically, emotionally, and metaphorically. Death Becomes Her: The Musical may look like pure comedy on the surface, but underneath the glitter and punchlines, it holds up a mirror to something darker: the cost of living in a world where your value is tied to how young, smooth, and desirable you appear to be.

Madeline and Helen don’t just want to look young – they need to. Because in their world (which isn’t that different from ours), aging is a crisis. Wrinkles are tragedy. And being invisible – especially as a woman.- is worse than death.

That sounds dramatic. And it is. It’s also true.

When survival means staying beautiful

In the musical, the obsession with staying young is heightened – literally. It’s loud. It’s melodic. It’s choreographed. And it feels familiar. Whether it’s the magic potion or the Instagram filter, the idea is the same: make it look good, no matter how broken it is underneath.

The musical leans hard into satire, but anyone who’s ever stood in front of a mirror trying to erase themselves knows it hits a nerve. Our culture worships youth and punishes aging. Especially for women. Especially when you’ve built your identity around being desirable, stunning, and wanted.

What happens when that starts to fade? Or more honestly – what happens when you think it is, and you don’t know who you are without it?

The musical makes a joke of decay—but it’s not funny when it’s real

One of the most brilliant things the show does is externalize the internal. The characters literally fall apart onstage. Bodies twist, heads snap, paint peels. They are still “young, healthy, beautiful” technically – but they’re also grotesque. That contrast is powerful. It forces us to ask: What are we trying to preserve? Is it beauty? Or is it control?

Madeline and Helen aren’t just fighting off time. They’re fighting off grief. Grief over who they used to be. Who they thought they’d become. What they lost chasing a standard they could never hold onto.

They’re not evil. They’re just scared. Of fading. Of being forgotten. Of having to live with themselves—flaws and all.

Why this story still matters (and stings)

It’s easy to laugh at the absurdity. That’s the point. But as the sequins fall and the lights dim, the question lingers: How many of us would drink the potion? Not just to be young forever—but to feel like we matter?

And that’s the thing. Perfection doesn’t actually give you peace. It just hides the mess for a little while longer. Eventually, the cracks show.

But maybe showing the cracks isn’t failure. Maybe it’s the start of healing. Of softening. Of stepping off the stage and into something more honest – even if it’s not always pretty.

Because we weren’t meant to be perfect. We were meant to be real.

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