Beetlejuice Beetlejuice (Burton, 2024)

Written by Tom Augustine.

People have differing opinions on when Tim Burton lost his mojo. Some claim it was the turn of the century, or after his incredibly divisive Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, or the utterly woeful Alice in Wonderland in 2010. It’s a generally accepted opinion that Burton has been off his game for at least ten years now, his last film to generate respectful reviews being Frankenweenie way back in 2012. Burton’s career has long been a bumpy ride with occasional highs, whether you’re a Sweeney Todd fan, or a Big Fish fan, or a Dark Shadows apologist (I think I might be the only one of those). It’s fair to say that the energy and verve of Burton’s ‘80s and ‘90s output, when the hits just kept on coming – Batman! Batman Returns! Edward Scissorhands! Ed Wood! Peewee’s Big Adventure! – is a thing of the past. By the time 2019’s already-forgotten live action adaptation of Dumbo rolled around, Burton’s schtick had long since lost its lustre, and one could feel the creative fatigue emanating off the work like a bad smell. Burton seemed, above all, very tired. 

Most received the news of a long-delayed Beetlejuice sequel in that spirit – Burton had only ever done one other sequel, Batman Returns, and this one had the reek of corporate reanimation. The original Beetlejuice was lightning in a bottle – an antic, delightfully devilish concoction that perfectly married Burton’s gothic house style with a hyper-committed cast that included Michael Keaton and Winona Ryder, and a script that drained Burton’s customary oddball sentiment out entirely, leaving only a hoot and a half behind. Early reports of the film promised a return to form – trailers suggested that Burton had found a way to reinvigorate himself. In Beetlejuice Beetlejuice, key players Keaton, Ryder and Catherine O’Hara return many years on from the events of the original. Ryder’s iconic Lydia Deetz is now a psychic medium for a tacky television show, manipulated and coddled by producer-turned-boyfriend Rory (Justin Theroux). Her daughter Astrid (Jenna Ortega) resents her inability to contact her father, who died suddenly many years previous. Both mother and daughter are called to Winter River once again when family patriarch Charles (played by Jeffrey Jones in the original film) is eaten by a shark, throwing O’Hara’s Delia, an experimental artist, into a creative headspin. All the while, the figure of Beetlejuice, mischief-making demon of the underworld, lurks, awaiting his time. 

Auteur Tim Burton attempts a late-career comeback after a string of failures with this return to one of his most beloved properties, 1988’s Beetlejuice, reuniting many of the key cast from the original. Burton showcases a more lively approach than much of his recent work, and there’s fun to be had, but a messy script and a nagging sense of wheel-spinning let the side down. 

If this already sounds like a lot of setup – and it is – brace yourself for even more, with subplot upon subplot piling into the open door this sequel has created. I haven’t yet mentioned the presence of Beetlejuice’s ex-wife Delores (Monica Bellucci), a soul-sucking witch who Beetlejuice dismembered and left hidden for centuries, only to be reanimated and out for revenge. Then there’s the evolving relationship between Astrid and local Winter River kid Jeremy (Arthur Conti), who isn’t quite what he seems. Then there’s also the fact that Rory has designs on Lydia’s fortune, and drags her headlong into a shotgun marriage to occur at midnight on Halloween. Oh yeah, and there’s a one-time actor famous for playing a television cop who, now dead, is the head of the underworld police force (I think?) who is mostly just there so that Willem Dafoe can be in this movie. Watching Beetlejuice Beetlejuice, which takes an agonisingly long time to establish all these many loose strands of plot, one imagines Burton has a clever plan to eventually weave these all together, but it never emerges – or if so, only perfunctorily. The failure of Beetlejuice Beetlejuice, after all that, is not Burton’s direction at all, but an astonishingly inept, messy script from writers Miles Millar and Alfred Gough, who seemingly have no idea how to structure a film at all. An argument could convincingly be made that the film proper doesn’t really start until some forty-five minutes in, which may work for a sombre, stately arthouse film, but not the legacy sequel of a nasty, scuzzy ‘80s horror-comedy. In a sense, it’s that word – legacy – that bogs Beetlejuice Beetlejuice down. Watching, we get a feeling of a lack of confidence on the part of the creators, who overcorrect by stuffing their film far, far too full.

It’s not that some of these subplots lack promise. New cast additions Ortega and Theroux snap into place incredibly well. Theroux is always a treat to watch, and plays a comedic heel with such vigour that a viewer might be tempted to forget his remarkable talent as a dramatic actor, too. Ortega, the deadpan, goth-adjacent rising star who already got a piece of this market in Wednesday, isn’t necessarily stretching herself here, but makes for a fine sub-in for Ryder at the same age. Ortega also gets one of the more intriguing plot threads in the film, in her relationship with Conti’s Jeremy, which takes a turn for the sinister and ghoulish, temporarily elevating the pulse of this largely tepid sequel. Perhaps predictably, it gets lost in the third act rush, resolving all-too-quickly in favour of far less interesting activity. Worst is the arc of Bellucci’s Delores, which is so tacked-on that one could lift it out of the plot wholesale and virtually nothing would be changed. It’s always a pleasure to have Bellucci on the scene, but the lifelessness with which her story is approached feels a little insulting. The same could be said for O’Hara, who is mired in some uninteresting, startlingly unfunny shenanigans that don’t really function within the story at large at all, only to be ushered off the stage in one of the least celebratory farewells I’ve ever seen on screen. 

It is a shame, because reports of Burton’s renewed energy have not been misreported – there is a refreshing zip to his work here, as he gets to really indulge in the silliness, spookiness and ickiness that a Beetlejuice redo promises. The film’s production design is suitably strong, though it loses some of its ‘abandoned Halloween store’ authenticity when seen through glossy digital photography. And Keaton, who slips back into the Beetlejuice persona easily, is always a great reason to watch. Not much has changed for Beetlejuice, and that’s probably how it should be. Keaton reportedly fought not to be too central to the story, remaining on the outskirts, and that works well here. We get just enough of the ‘Juice to not feel it curdle in our stomachs. Inspired touches throughout ensure that Beetlejuice Beetlejuice remains watchable, even if the bad taste it leaves as the credits roll is hard to wash out. A climactic sequence scored to Donna Summer’s gloriously over-the-top ‘MacArthur Park’ medley is endearingly daffy, while the presence of a legion of oversized, shrunken-headed peons working for Beetlejuice and led by  their manager ‘Bob’ are a consistently hilarious presence. The train that carries souls to the great beyond is called the ‘Soul Train’, and is populated by disco dancing ghouls, a sight gag too appreciably obvious to resist. But because nothing in the film coheres, nothing feels whole, made all the more frustrating by the fact that a leaner, sharper and more enjoyable film can be glimpsed floating amidst the flotsam and jetsam of modern blockbuster bloat. I can’t call it a comeback for Burton, but I can’t place the blame at his feet, either. 

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is in cinemas now.

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