At the core of every long-standing and staunchly embittered female rivalry (at least in the twentieth century, though obviously it’s still happening now) is, of course, a competition of looks. The kind of competition that can only be determined by a man choosing one woman over the other as a means to establish a “victor.” In 1962’s What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, the man to set that precedent for “Baby” Jane Hudson (later played by Bette Davis) and her sister, Blanche (later played by Joan Crawford), was their father, overtly preferring and fawning over Jane during her vaudevillian child star days circa 1917, making her a cash cow for the family and forever solidifying in her mind the need to creepily sing “I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy.”
By 1935, the tables have turned on Baby Jane, however, with Blanche becoming something far more impressive than a stage star–a movie star. Looks like all that fatherly lack of attention drove her to greater success, much to Jane’s dismay. Jane, who mocks her openly at a party filled with Hollywood’s elite. It is on this very night that Blanche’s “accident” occurs, paralyzing her from the waist down and forcing Jane to become her permanent caretaker (with everyone assuming Jane was the one who caused Blanche’s condition by running her over). Thus, they are forever saddled with one another as a result of no outsider being able to fathom their piss and vinegar-ridden dynamic, with obligation and culpability both being factors at play.
In 1992’s Death Becomes Her, Madeline Ashton (Meryl Streep) is something of the Baby Jane figure, determined to cling to her youth no matter how ridiculous her state of denial makes her look. As is the case in the film’s opening scene, in which she stars in a musical version of Sweet Bird of Youth, prompting many to leave before intermission, hissing such comments as, “Can you believe Madeline Ashton? Talk about waking the dead!” Among the few audience members enjoying the show is Ernest Menville (Bruce Willis), brought to the theater by his fiancée, Helen Sharp (Goldie Hawn). As the longtime rival of Madeline (though not in the field of acting so much as writing) since high school, she has made it a point to introduce Ernest to her before the wedding, to test her theory that Madeline always poaches her boyfriends from her. This time, alas, is no exception, and it smacks of the intense competitive jealousy between Blanche and Jane over decades spent trying to prove that one is more attractive–therefore more valuable–than the other. The most effective way being through the gauge of male approval (whether in its genesis in a fatherly format, or later on in life when one is trying to use their milkshake to bring all the non-related by blood boys to the yard).
With Madeline vindicated once again as the more desirable between the two of them, Helen goes on an obsessive bender, watching the same scene of Madeline getting choked out in one of her film roles on repeat. This actually smacks of something both Blanche and Jane would do, Blanche (who, like Crawford herself, did relish watching old movies with her in it on TV) for more narcissistic reasons than Jane. And, speaking of narcissism, the entire crux of both films is founded upon it, with particular regard to how it is inextricably linked to Hollywood. As Madeline’s jig is up as an actress come 1992, she decides to attend Helen’s book party for a tome entitled Forever Young in the hope of at least being comforted by her equally as decrepit appearance. Alas, Helen looks better than ever, leaving Madeline feeling more vulnerable than before and sending her to the arms of Lisle Von Rhoman (Isabella Rossellini), whose card she was given for aesthetic emergencies.
Turns out, Lisle is the force behind many celebrities who have maintained their youth at the cost of having to fake their own death (e.g. Elvis, Marilyn), for the caveat of drinking her potion, a bottled fountain of youth, is that Madeline must disappear ten years later, so that no one will ever know of the potion’s existence. One can easily envision Baby Jane or, more to the point, Joan Crawford, voraciously gulping down this elixir in an attempt to preserve any shred of suppleness. That is the curse of being a woman conditioned to believe that all worth is tied to appearance. That there is nothing more powerful or effective than a pretty package–wrapped in taut skin.
As for Madeline, her pliability becomes a bit too effective after Ernest pushes her down the stairs post-potion consumption and she whips her neck around effortlessly to put it back in place like Mr. Stretch. Madeline’s bullet hole delivered to Helen’s stomach seems to prove just as unaffecting, the latter being more irate over Madeline’s ability to win yet again than the physical ramifications of her wound. Which Ernest is forced to patch up anyway, making them realize they’re going to need him to take the potion if they want an adept mortician for all of eternity. Ernest is not so gung-ho about the idea, telling Lisle, “I don’t wanna live forever. It sounds good, but what am I gonna do? What if I get bored? What if I get lonely?” Lisle reminds, “But you never grow old.” “But everybody else will. I’ll have to watch everyone around me die. I don’t think this is right. This is not a dream. This is a nightmare.”
Much like the one both Blanche and Jane are forced into by being stuck with one another thanks to their unholy bond of sisterhood. The kind forged between Madeline and Helen once they acknowledge the fact that they’re going to be the only ones around to “paint each other’s ass” when Ernest finally flees from their clutches. It’s an ironic reconciliation to make between both sets of women, whose raging and unwavering contempt for one another was sure to destine them to remain apart for the rest of their lives as opposed to together forever like some sort of married couple. An arranged marriage, that is. By Fate’s sadistic sense of humor that seems always to bring two women back together who want nothing to do with one another. Because, in the end, these beggars of affection and tenderness can’t be choosers in just how callously and grudgingly they’re delivered from the one person left standing to give them. And it ain’t never gonna be a man who falls into that category.
