You need not be a diehard Juicehead to recall the incantation.
Even those with hazy memories of 1988’s “Beetlejuice” know that in order to summon the titular ghoul, the chant does not stop at two. That lends additional intrigue to this year’s Venice Film Festival opener, which arrives 36 years after the initial volley as a fan-service bonanza and implicit series midpoint. So Juiceheads rejoice, because “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” goes all-in on the legacy front, offering everything you want and less, playing as a Burton buffet that leaves you stuffed if not quite satisfied, and in no real hurry to go back for thirds.
That’s probably just as well for the legions eager for Burton’s particular vein of macabre madcap – a style that gradually waned once the director himself became a brand. For the past two decades he’s attached that brand to existing IP, sending remakes and adaptations through his proprietary filter, often to diminishing returns. Rather than stopping that trend, “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” pushes towards an inevitable next step, finally seeing the brand-name director offer his Tim Burton Take… on the work of Tim Burton.
Like a sandworm eating its own tail, the film is playfully self-aware, delighting in callbacks and connections to the director’s glory years all while pointing out the trade-offs and workarounds necessary for this kind of legacy sequel. The band is almost entirely back together to send Lydia Deetz (Winona Ryder, of course) back to the same haunted house her family had bought nearly four decades prior – but not everyone could return. Original ghosts Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis have aged with the rest of us – a big no-no for phantoms stuck as eternal thirtysomethings – while scene-stealer Glenn Shadix passed away and actor Jeffrey Jones, well, you can Google that yourself.
You probably should, because the film turns Jones’ persona non grata status into a running gag, bringing his character back as a ghost whose nature of death obviates a thorny casting issue. Same goes for all the so-called “loopholes” the script proudly flaunts.
That script is much busier this time around, reintroducing our returning champs — who haven’t changed all that much since last we left them – while pairing them off against a new set of foils. Not unlike a certain director, the sullen teen Lydia has blossomed into a fantastically successful sullen adult, parlaying her goth demeanor into a media career as a TV psychic. Meanwhile her stepmom Delia (Catherine O’Hara) and erstwhile paramour Betelgeuse (Michael Keaton, but you knew that) are ever the same only more so, with the former a pitch-perfect caricature of art-world vapidity and the latter the same wily and vulgar force of nature we’ve all come to love. The actors clearly share in those sentiments, with all three slipping back into character with evident glee.
Though all find time to shine, they do so from within a herky-jerky narrative that never quite streamlines its various threads. While Lydia fends off a new-age lame-o (Justin Theroux) intent on making her his bride, Delia mourns her husband’s recent death by turning grief into a multi-media performance piece staged for a wide audience. Meanwhile the B-man suffers his own marital woes, here in the guise of soul-sucking ex-wife (Monica Bellucci) hell-bent on revenge. That Bellucci is now romantically linked with her director would not be worth mentioning were the actress not expressly made-up to resemble so many of Burton’s previous muses, crossed, for good measure, with similar figures from “The Nightmare Before Christmas” and “The Corpse Bride.” Once again, reflexivity is the very game here.
Alongside colorful turns from Danny DeVito and Willem Dafoe, this family affair most prominently features the filmmaker’s newest collaborator, Jenna Ortega. The “Wednesday” star plays Astrid, a chip off the old block so close in affect and outlook to mama Lydia that the pair can hardly stand one another. Of course the sullen teen 2.0 has her own subplot, rife with her own relationship distress, but the how and whys leave less of an impression in a jittery burlesque always eager for the next gag.
Some land, others don’t, and after a near breakneck opening hour the film finds its surest footing trading exposition for set pieces that thrum with the right kind of WTF. Burton’s technical skills and gruesome designs are always on point, while the film’s practical effects and animated flourishes arrive like old friends. And for a film very much anchored in the dominant Hollywood model of undead IP buried in legacy and lore, “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” has an appealingly throwback quality – not just for the welcome return of long-missed techniques, but for a sensibility and sense of humor that doesn’t try to keep with the times.
Throwaway references and gonzo musical cues – most notably in a third-act number set to Richard Harris’ “MacArthur Park” – speak more to Burton’s age demo than to the younger generations who grew up with his films, and that’s refreshing. It feels honest and true. Few would mistake “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” for a confessional or particularly self-revealing work, but it does hew closer to that original artistic spark that dimmed once the director became a trademark.
A Warner Bros. Pictures release, “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” opens exclusively in theaters on Sept. 6.
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