Title: Beetlejuice Beetlejuice
Director: Tim Burton
Cast: Michael Keaton, Winona Ryder, Catherine O’Hara, Jenna Ortega, Justin Theroux, Willem Dafoe, Monica Bellucci, Arthur Conti,
Where: In theatres near you
Rating: 2.5 stars
There’s a fine line between reviving a cult classic and resurrecting a corpse that is better left in the grave. Unfortunately, this film, Tim Burton’s much-anticipated sequel to his 1988 dark fantasy, falls firmly into the latter category. Despite its best attempts to channel the anarchic energy of its predecessor, this film feels more like a soulless cash grab than a spirited return to form.
Michael Keaton reprises his role as the titular ghost with the most, but instead of the unpredictable chaos that made him iconic, we’re treated to a watered-down version that’s more mascot than menace. Keaton’s performance, while serviceable, reeks of familiarity—less like a mischievous demon and more like an aging rock star playing his greatest hits. Winona Ryder returns as Lydia Deetz, now a weary mother and paranormal TV host, but her transformation from quirky goth to frazzled parent is as uninspired as it is unnecessary.
The film starts with promise, teasing a return to Winter River, where the twisted suburban landscapes and ghoulish humour once thrived. But it quickly becomes apparent that the film is less interested in crafting a coherent narrative than in piling on as many references and celebrity cameos as possible. What was once a charmingly offbeat comedy about life, death, and real estate has morphed into a bloated mess of half-baked ideas and overstuffed subplots teeming with extraneous characters that serve more as distractions than enrichments.
Jenna Ortega, as Lydia’s rebellious daughter Astrid, is one of the few bright spots, though her character is given little to do beyond serving as a plot device. Her journey into the afterlife—a trip that should have been the film’s emotional core—feels rushed and devoid of any real stakes. Monica Bellucci as Beetlejuice’s stitched-together ex-wife and Willem Dafoe as a dead detective, are both utterly wasted, their characters shoehorned into a narrative that is already bursting at the seams.
The middle of the film briefly flirts with the magic of the original, offering a few moments where Keaton and Ryder manage to recapture some of their old chemistry. But these fleeting sparks are quickly extinguished by the film’s relentless need to one-up itself, culminating in a chaotic third act that feels like a bad Halloween party on speed. Sandworms, disco numbers, and a demon baby that’s more annoying than amusing are all thrown into the mix, but none of it adds to anything more than a cacophony of noise.
Visually, the film retains some of Burton’s trademark flair, with the underworld sequences showcasing his knack for combining CGI with practical effects. But even this can’t save the film from feeling like a cheap imitation of the original, lacking the handcrafted charm that made Burton’s early work so distinctive. Instead, we’re left with what feels like a mass-produced product designed to cash in on millennial nostalgia.
Overall, while the film may tickle the fancy of those craving a nostalgic trip to the afterlife, it ultimately raises the question: did we really need to summon this sequel, or should it have remained buried?
