Tim Burton has always been an anomaly. It’s rare that a visionary director, especially with an aesthetic formula as decisive as his, gets to play with the kind of budgets which for Burton are routine. Still, given his nearly unmatched pedigree molding both original ideas and IP into peculiar shapes that maintain mass appeal, it makes sense. The man knows what to do with a fat pocketbook, and Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is no exception.
After a string of near-misses beginning with 2012’s Dark Shadows, in 2022 Burton conjured up his first bona fide hit in years with his Addams Family reboot Wednesday for Netflix, starring Jenna Ortega. Now, Burton has re-teamed with Ortega for the inevitable: the resurrection of one of his classics. It’s a cynical time in Hollywood, with nary an original idea in sight; but with Beetlejuice Beetlejuice, what could have been a perfunctory cash grab has proved an energetic tribute to Burton’s beginnings, and his most joyous outing in ages.
The sequel picks up with Winona Ryder’s Lydia Deetz after some 36 years. Made local legend by the events of the first film, she now hosts a paranormal talk show produced by her unctuous, therapy-speak boyfriend Rory (Justin Theroux), a poor replacement for the deceased father of her teenage daughter Astrid (Ortega).
With Astrid in boarding school, the family is reunited by the untimely death of Lydia’s father Charles, played in the original film by Jeffrey Jones. Jones, having come very publicly under arrest in 2002 for crimes of the really, really bad kind, does not reprise his role in the film. His image, however, is used in a variety of increasingly funny modes, and in itself becomes a running highlight of the film. The continued hammering on his character feels both dangerous, ridiculous, and entirely Beetlejuice.
With Charles deceased, it’s up to Lydia and her stepmother Delia (reprised by the inimitable Catherine O’Hara) to sell the old haunted house. In so doing they reencounter Betelgeuse (Michael Keaton), and all manner of shenanigans ensue.
Multiple villains are introduced (including Burton’s new beau Monica Bellucci as the classically stapled together, high camp, soul-sucking Delores), but in keeping with the original, the story isn’t really the point. The point is the breakneck hijinks and the endless gags, and those are here in spades.
It’s not a perfect vision: Beetlejuice Beetlejuice has an undeniable Netflix-sheen, most apparent in its first act. Ortega is forgettable as a lure for younger audiences, and Ryder’s performance comes off even more wooden than usual. Still, it doesn’t stifle the fun. The sheer volume of visual gags and lovingly crafted animated corpses supersedes whatever trite concessions have been made to modern convention.
The concert of digital and practical effects is put to great use, and while there are of course plenty of the former, the practical elements are implemented with such skill and in such profusion that the whole feels supremely refreshing.
Danny Elfman adds his signature flair, and with much greater gusto than his last few outings. From the opening credits his thumping brass signals good times ahead, and his score is augmented with some entertaining needle drops.
I won’t pretend to have kept up with Burton’s output over the past decade, but it feels as if for the first time in ages he’s having fun again. There is an undeniable verve on display, a creative energy in all the numerous creepies, creatures, corpses and soul-devouring brides. Not to mention the unending spree of actual, written jokes, at a time when the earnest comedy has all but fallen by the wayside. Not all the jokes land, but a whole lot of them do.
The character of Rory in particular could have come off as a meek critique of modern masculinity, but Theroux is so pitch-perfect in his delivery that he is instead one of the highlights of film. O’Hara too injects some welcome Christopher Guest charm, Keaton hams it up with the best of them, and a number of cameos and bit parts brighten the proceedings.
While Ortega’s tween romance with angsty intellectual Jeremy (Arthur Conti) threatens to derail things, it is so clearly aimed at the younger Wednesday crowd, and orchestrated with such self-awareness, that it never manifests as more than a speed bump.
I am reminded, in some ways, of a filmmaker like Wes Anderson. The highlights of Burton’s career are long past. By now, his aesthetics have become so calcified that they function more as a brand. Still, at a time when so many pictures are flat jumbles with no coherent style or attitude, seeing a well-executed vision of any kind is, in its own way, a blessing.
