(Sometimes, it just suddenly strikes you that you know nothing about something. While watching the movie, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, it came to my attention that I was completely unaware of the year 1992 in movies (I was 7). SO, now I’m on a quest to rectify that gap in knowledge by watching every single movie from 1992. This is number 29.)

For nearly two decades, Friday nights were dedicated to popcorn, pizza, and VHS movie rentals. As a child exploring the labyrinth of movies organized by genre in the local video rental store, the excitement of studying the sleeve covers sparked in my imagination hints of mystery and hidden treasures. Even though the most casual peruser would know the worn-out adage, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” it seemed more difficult to apply to the movies winking and smiling from the shelves. Each carefully crafted cover photo provided a window that appeared to encapsulate the personality dwelling within that electromagnetic tape, begging to be brought to life with the push of a play button. Many films that failed in the box office found their true success this way, by drawing in unexpected younger audiences who were captivated by the siren call of the perfect video jacket.

Though, there was one aisle that felt forbidden to me. An aisle enshrouded with an invisible miasma of superstition, and if I were to walk through and breathe in, I believed, I would inhale the wickedness that stared out from the cardboard sleeves allowing it to follow me home to haunt my nightmares. But being a child naturally drawn to spookier things, I would pretend to take a short cut to the Disney movies by way of the horror movie aisle, hold my breath, and pretend I wasn’t looking.

This is the only way I knew of Pinhead, The Puppetmaster, Freddy Krueger and the Candyman. Their menacing presence in the rental store was all the scarier, for their R ratings ensured that they continued to prowl in the frightening fringes of the unknown, that is, until I filled the space of age and parental permission that separated our contact.

There was one jacket cover that really fueled my imagination and caught my eye every time. It depicted two women in elegant dresses flanking a tuxedoed man, one woman’s back faced out but her head had been unnaturally twisted to stare forward over her back, and the other had a gaping hole in her stomach, through which the man had placed his arm to hold a candelabra. The tape was titled Death Becomes Her, which rang ominously to me as I was too young to understand the facetious double meaning. This movie above all others in the horror movie aisle exerted its personality on me, and I could not wait to be old enough to watch.

When I finally did see it, I absolutely hated it. I was in high school and I saw it on TV with unfortunate commercial interruptions. When poor TV editing chops up a seamless film into abrupt chunks, and a powerful romantic moment is immediately followed by Big Bob’s Discount Furniture Gallery, it certainly affects the experience, and this phenomenon ruined many movies for me before I came to this realization. I thought that the movie was ridiculous, and all the characters were disgustingly shallow. The disappointment was so immense that I did not revisit Death Becomes Her until I embarked on this journey through the films of 1992.

For those that have never seen this movie, a brief summary: Two “best friends”/ rivals Madeleine and Helen, played by Meryl Streep and Goldie Hawn, have secretly worked for years to undermine and outshine each other.

The focal point of their rivalry centers around one man: famed plastic surgeon Dr. Ernest Mennville, played by Bruce Willis. Their unhealthy fixation fuels their impetuous decision to accept an irresistible offer posed by a mysterious and gorgeous stranger, Lisle Von Rhuman, played by Isabella Rossellini. In exchange for a sliding scale fee, Lisle offers each of them separately a potion that promises eternal life, eternal youth, and eternal beauty. The one stipulation is that after a certain amount of time, they must publicly “die” or disappear so as not to reveal their secret. The agreement is struck, and only after they imbibe the potion is a warning issued; a warning dripping with portents, “Take care of yourself. You and your body are going to be together for a long time. Be good to it. Siempre viva! Live forever!”

And so Helen and Madeleine’s wishes are granted, to have youth and vitality restored… but of course, for the two of them, it’s not that simple. Restoration of youth and vitality is not enough; what really matters is winning. As viewers, we can see where this is heading. A selfish wish never works out well with a genie or a monkey’s paw, and it’s unlikely that a glowy magic potion that is likely not FDA approved will be any different.

If they had taken more time to consider their proverbial monkey’s paw, they would have noticed only one finger raised, right there in the middle, that quite clearly indicated, “F*#k you, no do overs.” We know that just desserts will be served before long, but we’re treated to several gratifying courses before the satisfying finale.

Despite being gifted with an eternity of countless possibilities, their obsession prevents them from freeing themselves of each other, and their rivalry almost immediately climaxes in death. Only after killing each other can they acknowledge their folly and admit how they truly feel. By then, their hearts are no longer beating and, naturally, the bodies they are stuck with for all eternity, begin to decay. The potion keeps its promise, it keeps them among the living, but only as walking, talking corpses. They get what they wished for; they end up forever with what they truly deserve — each other.

Luckily (for them), they have Dr. Ernest Mennville who, after being verbally abused in a loveless marriage for years, has lost his ability to perform surgery and has redirected his career to focus on making dead people look beautiful as a mortician. Together the two rivals unite in their no longer subtle manipulation and unabashed exploitation of poor Ernest, for it becomes apparent that all he ever represented was a means to an end, and as both women have reached their end, his new value to them lies in his skills as an undertaker.

It doesn’t end there, that’s only about halfway into this truly wacky movie. Robert Zamekis, who directed Who Framed Roger Rabbit four years earlier, must have used some of his experience working with the inhabitants of Toontown in directing Death Becomes Her. The vivid contrasting colors and framing; the over the top zany reactions that the characters give; the immaculately coiffed hair; the perfectly fitting, overly dramatic musical score by Alan Silvestri — all contribute to a cartoony, surreal feel that make it easier to accept the wild computer graphics.

Death Becomes Her won an Academy Award for the groundbreaking CGI work done by Industrial Light and Magic. Whereas the tasks of making Meryl Streep’s head twist and flop and squash within the skin of her neck does come off as extremely ambitious for the time, and computer graphics have come a looooong way since then (and it shows), this was an important step toward the special effects created by Industrial Light and Magic for their next project: Jurassic Park.

This brand new process was very taxing on the actors, especially for Meryl Streep who found frustrating the precise movements required of her to make a backwards head appear convincing on a frontward facing body. But despite whatever frustrations the cast felt, it does not show. All of the actors offer a fantastic performance, with each committing completely to their absurd, over the top characters — a commitment that is admirable and very, very fun to watch. The way Goldie Hawn plots her revenge by tearfully playing both sides; the way Isabella Rossellini punctuates every movement to feature her silhouette with a wry seductive smile; and *oh my gosh* the way Meryl Streep says ‘flaccid’(!) : all these moments (and so many others) are absolutely hilarious and prove that they must have had a lot of fun with their roles, but none more so than Bruce Willis.

Dr. Ernest Mennville is the polar opposite of what I think of when Bruce Willis comes to mind. Put it this way: John McClane is to badass-force-of-nature as Dr. Ernest Mennville is to nervous push-over. Instead of being a quick thinking, action-packed, self-possessed hero, Bruce Willis plays a fretting, mild-mannered, well-intentioned man that never has a clue what is going on around him. In a way, he is still the hero of the movie, but almost by accident. There are many moments in which he either jumps to ridiculous conclusions, or runs around, screaming, bombastically flailing his arms in panic when he doesn’t understand the true motivations of the women around him; but when it really matters, he finally asserts himself and screws over the people that had been taking advantage of his kind and generous nature. Death Becomes Her provides a platform for Bruce Willis to exhibit his comedic skills by leaning full tilt into the gullible dupe with gusto, and it’s a rare treat.

All in all, this re-watch was thoroughly enjoyable. The story in the tape finally matches the expression in the cover and my inner childhood self is finally appeased. My original take as a disappointed high schooler wasn’t entirely wrong, but I failed to recognize and appreciate the absurd irony threaded throughout this dark comedy. The characters are most definitely disgustingly shallow and they do and say despicable things, but that’s kind of the point. It’s their complete devotion to their own vanity that steers the topsy-turvey plot through all its wild twists and turns. Helen and Madeleine are too good at being bad. They are both strong willed, know what they want, take action to obtain it, and do it all looking drop dead fabulous, to hell with the consequences.

A Journey Through 1992: DEATH BECOMES HER