A few weeks ago, a well-meaning friend and I were talking about upcoming summer releases. “Barbie is going to be surprisingly good, right?” he hypothesized, and said that he had initially been bummed when he found out it was Greta Gerwig’s next project. I’ve seen a lot of this kind of misconception lately, that this film is undeserving of the brilliant director who brought us Lady Bird and Little Women, and that those critically acclaimed works are on a higher tier of intelligence and craftsmanship than a live-action movie about a doll. To many, those qualities are incongruous; cleverness simply can’t exist in a life in plastic.

Camp is a hard concept for some people: they see the exaggerated acting, the tacky clothes, the absurdism, and they think it’s evidence of a lack of taste or skill or art. The crucial piece that they’re missing is that camp is deliberate. The silliness is underscored with an intelligence of what’s supposed to be; to break rules, you first have to understand them. In the words of John Waters, the Pope of Trash, “To understand bad taste, one must have very good taste.” To make Death Becomes Her, to tell a story about two women who take a magic anti-aging potion and fight each other with shovels, one must understand the psychological impact of the social constructs that put an incredible amount of pressure on women to stay young and beautiful forever. While Robert Zemeckis’s 1992 film was well-received by audiences and praised for its visual effects, some critics, like Siskel and Ebert, suggested that it contained little substance.

In fact, Death Becomes Her is a brilliant commentary on the lengths that some will go to in the pursuit of beauty, which is ultimately the key to love and acceptance. With the promise of eternal youth, Madeline and Helen–played by Meryl Streep and Goldie Hawn, respectively–write the check and throw back the glowing pink tonic, no questions asked, no concern for the inevitable ramifications. After all, as the mysterious Lisle (Isabella Rossellini) identifies, they’re scared as hell of entering the winter of their lives. Scared of withering away, of fading into obscurity, of no longer being a viable competitor for love and adoration. They’re desperate to deflate the prosthetic dump trucks and smooth out the wrinkles, and the overpriced European spas simply won’t cut it.

The story begins with a romantic rivalry between the two women over lauded surgeon Dr. Ernest Menville, played by a post-Die Hard Bruce Willis. As we soon realize, though, the plot isn’t really about who wants a relationship with Ernest; it’s about who will win a war fought with cleavage and lipstick. The scorned Helen, after 14 years of heartbroken self-destruction, has vowed revenge; the object of her obsession is Madeline, and getting Ernest back is simply a means to an end–specifically, Madeline’s end. On her part, Madeline has spent years trying to retain relevance in an industry that sweeps women out of sight as soon as they begin to wear their years on their face. “Wrinkled, wrinkled little star, hope they never see the scars,” she whispers to herself in a dressing room mirror. But they do see the scars, and she’s mocked for them. This is the catch-22: women shouldn’t age, but there should be no evidence of their fight against the natural law.

Lisle warns the women to take care of their bodies, but this is discarded almost immediately, with both women dying within hours of Madeline’s transformation. Their mortal wounds are initially repaired by Ernest, who then rejects them both and escapes, free to spend the rest of his years living an authentic, wholesome life, leaving behind a legacy of love and goodness. By rejecting the potion, Ernest is the “better” person; but for Ernest, the only pressure to take it is by the women who desperately need him to maintain their appearances. Ernest, and men in general, don’t have a firsthand understanding of what it means to rely on the currency of beauty. They’re allowed to age with grace and without medical intervention, because their value lies in what they contribute to society, regardless of how they look. That isn’t to say that beauty standards for men don’t exist, or that men don’t feel pressure to meet them, but it’s undeniable that the stakes are much lower.

This story could easily be translated to a serious drama about the lengths some women go to in order to remain creatures of the spring and the accompanying risks. There are myriad news articles about the consequences of too many procedures, of sketchy doctors delivering injections and performing surgeries, of how companies profit off of the insecurities that they perpetuate. That script could certainly sell, but why opt for bleak when you can have fun? Why end the story with a botched surgery, blood poisoning, or even a tragic death under anesthesia, when instead we can see Meryl Streep walk around with her head on backwards and Goldie Hawn, with a shotgun blast hole in her torso, complain that she’s all wet from falling in the pool? Zemeckis delivers his social commentary by way of absurdity, and that’s what gives Death Becomes Her eternal life.

Camp is polarizing, and that’s why I love it. Some find it dismissible; others embrace it for that very reason. Jinkx Monsoon, an incredibly successful performer and comedic genius, launched her career after winning season 5 of RuPaul’s Drag Race; she has cited Death Becomes Her as the genesis of her drag. This film, and countless other camp classics like But I’m A Cheerleader and Hairspray, are staples of queer culture. When your very existence is challenged by those who find it illegitimate, there’s a solace in entertainment that receives the same criticism. Camp is a refuge for those who celebrate the ridiculous, who seek to live beyond the confines of “good” and “smart” and “valuable.” Camp shows that you can understand what you’re supposed to do, and you can smash those expectations with a shovel. Camp is intentional, camp is brilliant, and camp is art. And for the record, Barbie is absolutely going to be good.

Camp Becomes Her