Skip to main content

Megan Hilty: "Death Becomes Her"

 I actually have never seen the Robert Zemeckis film "Death Becomes Her"; when I mentioned this to a Broadway vendor, he looked at me with obvious confusion. I bought my (Broadway) ticket for the chance to see Jennifer Simard--and only for the chance to see Jennifer Simard.


Also, I'm on vacation, and I'm hoping not to learn anything. No learning. No deep thinking. No "Our Town," no "Yellow Face." The only option was: "Death Becomes Her."

It feels strange to say this, but the Broadway version of "DBH" is essentially a rewrite of "Sweeney Todd." Helen Sharp, a meek, unsuccessful writer, watches in silence as her future is ripped from her hands. The best possible response is murder. But, having sought (and achieved) vengeance, Helen discovers that it's not quite what she had hoped for. Is it possible to live without the desire for revenge? And if revenge "leads to hell," then why is it still (sometimes) irresistible?

As in "Sweeney Todd," "DBH" provides a memorable villain. She is Madeline Ashton, cruel and unhinged. She wrecks homes; she tortures her domestic staff. In one of her best scenes, she suggests that it's burdensome to sign an autograph--then she rejects a pen and uses a machine-made stamp with her "signature" dipped in ink.

But, as I said, I paid up to see Jennifer Simard, and there was a particular moment that rewarded my investment. Simard's character says, "I'm coming here...I'm coming there...I'm becoming my own person....look at me! COME just seems to be flowing from my mouth!" And she dribbles water from her mouth, as if her face has yielded to a sudden eruption of human semen. I'm certain that no one wrote this shocking moment into the script. I'd bet many dollars that the moment is simply an invention of Jennifer Simard's. (And when people talk about comic brilliance, that's what they're referring to. Simard has a fearlessness that distinguishes her from most other singers on Broadway stages.)

So: two thumbs up. Let's get Simard into several other leading roles.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more