BY MICHAEL MUSTO | Women’s issues are prominently being felt, particularly the appalling way that society tends to treat them as obsolete when they hit a certain age. In the movies, The Substance is an over-the-top sci-fi romp about a celebrity (played by Demi Moore) who tries to outsmart the aging process and stay relevant to the money people, while The Last Showgirl has Pamela Anderson as a Vegas performer who’s at a crossroads now that she’s being asked to put down her headdress and basically disappear.

The topic also happens to be infusing Broadway, where the musical version of Sunset Blvd. is back, with Nicole Scherzinger as faded diva Norma Desmond, who goes flat-out psychotic from being cast aside, both in her career and romance. And now we have the latest Broadway hit musical—Death Becomes Her—in which the women are so put upon, they go up against each other. The show is based on the 1992 film about an author and an actress viciously battling it out over a man and some youth potion. The musical is a romp that not only casts a satirical eye on the lengths women are made to go to in order to look young, but it also fits in perfectly with this season’s bent towards grandiose, femme-based camp, from Mary Todd Lincoln to Tammy Faye Bakker to Betty Boop and beyond.

It all begins with Destiny’s Child’s Michelle Williams as Viola Van Horn, a youth serum-wielding diva (“Siempre Viva!”) with a powerful vocal belt and some sardonic attitude, surrounded by what look like S&M-flavored Cirque du Soliel dancers prepping for a voguing ball. When author Helen Sharp (the priceless Jennifer Simard) finds that her glamorous actress friend Madeline Ashton (talented Megan Hilty) has stolen her plastic surgeon fiancée (Christopher Sieber, delightful as a woebegone nerd), war breaks out, complete with lacerating bon mots and physical tomfoolery. The book by Marco Pennette keeps things lively, the score by Julia Mattison and Noel Carey helps propel the plot, and the direction and choreography by Christopher Gattelli (who choreographed Newsies) makes for some side-splitting antics—with help from body doubles, though it’s best to forget that and keep suspending disbelief. An Ivana Trump-like tumble down a stairway for Hilty is shockingly funny and so is her sudden beheading at the hands of the vengeful Simard. When the two bury the hatchet—as it were—it’s even better, because their powerhouse duetting stops the show on rousing songs like Alive Forever. And a little bit of chick-bonding is always welcome after all that heavy-duty mud flinging.

The movie boasted the formidable trio of Meryl Streep as narcissistic Madeline, Goldie Hawn as spiteful Helen, and Isabella Rossellini as the exotic goddess of rejuvenation. In this case, Hilty is playing a role that doesn’t feel tailor-made for her, but she’s more than game, while Simard summons her best deadpan for her quirky portrayal of a woman who goes batshit looney when she loses everything to her glam rival. The two stars work like demons to make it all look effortless, to magical effect, with only an occasional clunky line or bit of business. Williams sparkles in Paul Tazewell’s fab costume designs—Simard’s dress with a hole blown through it is another look you’ll never unsee—and Josh Lamon (The Prom) scores as Hilty’s sardonic personal assistant, though he’s weirdly listed as just “Ensemble.”

Naughty double entendres are sprinkled throughout, with mentions of cum guzzling, giving head, and fingering that aforementioned hole—you must believe me—and there’s also a fetching reference to Madeline having made it with her legs thrown wider than anyone, I mean higher than anyone. It’s perhaps inadvertently hilarious that after the serum, Hilty looks pretty much the same as before, but for the most part, this is a lavish diva fest that, while not a classic, feels like just the kind of feelgood exercise in bad behavior that we need right now. There’s something irresistibly fun about Madeline appearing in a show called Me! Me! Me!, in which she sings a ditty called For the Gaze, which plays, of course on the word “gays” as she morphs—via lightning-quick reveals—into Liza Minnelli, Julie Andrews (in Victor/Victoria) and Judy Garland (as Dorothy Gale). Death Becomes Her is so complete that it even manages to include cultists’ favorite line from the film—“NOW a warning?”

By the way, now a warning: This show will probably sell out, so get your tickets before the whole thing gets old.

At the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre, 205 West 46th Street (btw. Broadway & Eighth Ave.). Running time: 2 hours & 30 minutes, including one 15-minute intermission. Recommended for ages 12+. Tickets are on sale now through August 2025. To order, and more info (including group sales, digital ticket lottery, and in-person rush tix), click here to visit the show’s website.

Michael Musto is a columnist, pop cultural and political pundit, NYC nightlife chronicler, author, and the go-to gossip responsible for the long-running (1984-2013) Village Voice column, “La Dolce Musto.” His work appears on this website as well as Queerty.com and thedailybeast.com, and he is writing for the new Village Voice, which made its debut in April of 2021. Follow Musto on Instagram, via @michaelmusto.

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