In a Hollywood dominated by the ever-present specter of “intellectual property” and “franchise filmmaking” that looms large over original storytelling, Tim Burton is what has now become a rarity to see when film credits roll: a household name.
Where the factors drawing audiences’ butts in seats have become increasingly less about name and more about brand, Burton’s run of films from the late 1980s into the early 2000s — including “Edward Scissorhands,” “Sleepy Hollow” and “Corpse Bride” — proved his talents behind the camera to be a brand unto themselves.
Even as Burton’s work declined into poorly-received franchise films — remember “Dumbo” (2020), anyone? — his trademark gothic sensibilities have remained well-ingrained in the greater cultural consciousness, despite being void of an opportunity to be let loose.
Thankfully, 2024’s “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” is undoubtedly Burton’s proof-of-life project, demonstrating that the creator still has plenty of “the juice” left to sustain a thoroughly entertaining experience that surpasses even the 1988 original.
The film’s story picks up far removed from the events of the first “Beetlejuice,” with Lydia Deetz (Winona Ryder) and her family taking center stage. Prompted to return to the town of Winter River — alongside their no less iconic house — by the death of Lydia’s father, trouble brewed by her rebellious daughter, Astrid (Jenna Ortega), sleazy boyfriend, Rory (Justin Theroux) and a certain eponymous trickster demon (Michael Keaton) collides as the family once again reckons with the bizarre world of the paranormal.
The lore of Burton’s macabre bureaucracy hasn’t changed much since 1988. The dead are still organized in a surreal subworld full of tedious lines, complicated paperwork and, of course, lots and lots of kooky corpses, brought to life by a top-notch mix of practical effects, makeup and costuming. The wonder of watching so many creatives’ work brought to life with such vivacity is never lost throughout the film’s full 100 minutes, and even familiar characters or bits of scenery are still made to pop behind its glossy, modern sheen.
The entire crew’s work — not to mention the rousing score by Burton’s frequent co-collaborator Danny Elfman — demonstrates an innate understanding of the material that, when paired with the stellar cast, enlivens even a film this undead.
Keaton is outstanding as Beetlegeuse, appearing much more enthused to slip back into the musty, striped suit than he was to return in his other Burton-derived role in last year’s “The Flash.” Ortega likewise delivers a wonderful combination of youthful vigor and appropriate gloominess that allows her to slide right in alongside the rest of the star-studded cast. Some of my favorite work came from Burn Gorman’s small role as the town’s mumbly-yet-grandiloquent priest.
This “more is better” creative mentality is evident in the story, as well.
Rarely does one encounter a so-called “legacy sequel” so willing to aspire beyond cheap callbacks and simply barrel ahead with its story, come what may. The highest compliment that I can pay the film is that it certainly feels like almost four decades’ worth of “Beetlejuice” sequel ideas are presented here, for better and for worse.
On one hand, the film is overstuffed with a nightmarish amount of conflicting ideas and plotlines. Sometimes it runs like a fairly standard legacy film, with characters rediscovering and reexperiencing some of the original film’s most iconic imagery. Other times, its newer elements make it feel awfully familiar to a typical adolescent-oriented Netflix show — helped in no small part by both Burton and Ortega’s recent involvement in 2022’s “Wednesday,” which streamed on the platform. Other times still, it’s hard to tell just what the filmmakers envisioned; case in point, the almost nonsensically underused addition of Monica Bellucci as Beetlegeuse’s evil ex-wife.
Much as with the original film, though, there’s a wonderful clarity to the utter mess that is “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice.” After all, I would argue that a film whose main attraction is a grotesquely made-up Keaton delivering uncomfortably long love ballads — not to mention all manner of nasty squealing, squelching and belching — is the last candidate that should be forced within the confines of “what makes sense” for a “Beetlejuice” sequel.
Rather, the film prefers to dwell on what doesn’t make sense: multiple unannounced musical numbers, a sales agency of mumbly shrunken-head men, a shockingly sinister, undead teenage heartthrob and a group of ghostly ‘80s B-movie cops tracking down a Dark Ages cultess — who just so happens to have been married to Beetlegeuse himself — to name a few.
In concept, it doesn’t really gel, but when you sit back and feel the effects of Burton orchestrating this disharmonious little symphony with what feels like a thousand ghoulish little balls in the air at once, it’s hard not to be impressed, much less entertained.
In a time where going to see a Halloween-centric studio film is often the experience of reading a tired laundry list of spooky aesthetics and recycled tropes, both “Beetlejuice” and its sequel act as a liberating embracement of those sensibilities. It’s a tightly-wound, home-grown spookathon with no shame behind its tropiness, nor its sincerity.
“Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” is perhaps best experienced as a celebration, both of the original film’s achievements as well as the gristly, yucky parts of the human imagination that keep audiences coming back for more. It is a surprisingly well-realized film, and it’s one that will almost assuredly allow Burton to work his ghostly magic on any type of moviegoer that goes to see it — those willing to forgive him for that whole “Dumbo” fiasco, anyway.
Kevin Lynch can be reached at lynch1832@stthomas.edu.