She Who Must Be Obeyed: Beauty, Power, and the Divine Feminine in Death Becomes Her

By Mary Mba, Ph.D.

I’ve watched Death Becomes Her more times than I can count. I’ve taught it in my Women in Film classes for years, always amazed at how this glammed-up, campy 1992 film sparks such serious conversations about aging, beauty, power, and the lengths women are asked to go to remain visible.

But the older I get—and the deeper I dive into stories of monstrous women, divine mothers, and witches with impossible grace—the more one character in this film stands out to me:

Not Madeline Ashton.

Not Helen Sharp.

But Lisle von Rhoman.

Swathed in silk, nearly nude, adorned with gold and mystery, Lisle floats into the story like a postmodern goddess. She’s played by Isabella Rossellini with the grace of an immortal and the gaze of someone who knows you will obey her—or suffer. And she offers something no woman in the real world is supposed to have: eternal youth.

Of course, there’s a catch. There’s always a catch.

“Take care of yourself,” she tells Madeline. “You and your body are going to be together a long time. Be good to it.”

“You may continue your career for ten years… but at the end of that time, before people become suspicious, you have to disappear from public view forever.”

That line always makes me pause.

We’re taught that beauty is visibility. That the reward for being young, slim, flawless, is to be seen. But what Death Becomes Her shows us—what Lisle teaches—is that in this system, beauty also requires erasure. You can stay beautiful… but only if no one sees you fall apart. And when that time comes, you’re expected to vanish.

It’s a terrifying deal. And yet, doesn’t it feel familiar?

The Goddess in the Algorithm

Lisle’s candlelit temple, her magical elixir, her immortality rituals—they might seem far from the world of filters, ring lights, and celebrity skin routines. But they’re not. Her logic lives on in today’s beauty apps, in TikTok transformations, in the $60 billion cosmetic industry that turns aging into failure and transformation into endless labor.

Makeup has become modern magic. People sculpt entire new faces daily. Drag queens remind us that gender, like youth, is something you can paint. Women in their 60s are going viral for reversing time with contour. The same power Lisle holds—the power of illusion—is now available in every Sephora and on every phone screen.

But the pressure remains.

Maintain yourself.

Be careful.

Don’t crack.

Global Goddesses, Real Monsters

Lisle isn’t alone in media history. Across African, Asian, and Latin American cultures, we’ve always had powerful feminine spirits. Mami Wata, La Llorona, witches who resist marriage or bear scars of survival. In films like I Am Not a Witch, Mami Wata (2023), or Onibaba, the female body becomes sacred, dangerous, ungovernable.

These women don’t always maintain themselves. Sometimes, they rot. Sometimes, they fight. Sometimes, they scream. But they never disappear quietly.

That’s what makes them monstrous—and that’s what makes them divine.

When the Mask Doesn’t Come Off

What Death Becomes Her leaves us with isn’t horror or comedy—it’s a question: What happens when the body is no longer yours, but a performance?

As I revisit this film with students, with friends, with myself, I see Lisle not as a villain, but as a warning. She who must be obeyed is also she who must be feared. She offers power. But it’s not freedom. It’s maintenance. And behind every mirror in her temple is a woman who will one day fall apart.

So maybe the question isn’t how to stay young forever.

Maybe it’s this:

What does it mean to be seen—truly seen—even as we change?

And how do we write ourselves into a story where we don’t disappear?