As far as unnecessary sequels go, Tim Burton's “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” is standard fare in just about every respect. The plot's busy, the visual effects hit-or-miss and its villains are neither potent nor memorable. Yet somehow, it becomes something greater than the sum of our expectations. The belated follow-up to 1988's “Beetlejuice” owes much of its charm to its supporting cast, which is hands-down one of the most strikingly entertaining ensembles of the past decade.
The original “Beetlejuice” reinforced the tactility of Burton's movie magic more than it emphasized the brilliance of its casting. Sandworms, scale-model hauntings and phantom football players made for truly iconic imagery, and so much of that first film's novelty is rooted in that aesthetic. “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” flips these priorities. This time, monsters and mayhem play second banana to the people experiencing them, and “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” revels in showing us what that looks like.
Forming a sort of “cringe trinity” are Delia Deetz (Catherine O'Hara) and two new characters: Rory (Justin Theroux) and Wolf Jackson (Willem Dafoe,) all of whom are relentless with their cartoonish dysfunction. It's not a stretch to claim the movie owes 80% of its hilarity to these three performances precisely because they go above and beyond where they didn't need to.
When we catch back up with Delia, the Deetz family matriarch and haughty, pouty and demanding stepmother to Lydia (Winona Ryder), she's calling a now famous Lydia to her art exhibition to inform her that her father Charles Deetz (a absent Jeffrey Jones) has died. There's a ton going on in this scene, but all that matters in the moment is Delia. The reason for this pulled focus is clear: O'Hara's "Schitt's Creek" role absolutely informs how she revisits her “Beetlejuice” character, and as we drop deeper into Burton's warped inner workings, it's impossible not to see Moira Rose in everything she says and does.
Later in the film, Delia takes a pair of venomous reptiles to her late husband's grave in an ill-fated attempt to mimic Egyptian mourning rituals. The asps — not snakes, she quickly corrects — are allegedly defanged and thus safe for her latest showcase. It's here that we get Delia's one moment of vulnerability (she and Rory each only get one, apparently), which comes as she's kneeling in front of Charles' grave, asps in hand, admitting to herself that grief sucks and moving through it is hard. She brings the asps close enough to her throat to strike, but when they do, she dies. The asps weren't defanged; Delia's pathological need for theatrics literally kills her. I'm not sure which part of that isn't hysterical.
But yes, you read that correctly: The movie rather unceremoniously kills Delia off in the most apt way possible. And death is certainly not the end of her. Pouting “But I have Global Entry!” as she settles into the waiting room with her fellow specters is just the beginning of her afterlife antics.
Delia dies as she lived: pomp without much circumstance, topped off with comical incredulity at the consequences of her dramatics. And yet, through all the meltdowns, outbursts and shrewd commentary, she's irresistible. O'Hara brings weight and pathos to a role that so easily could have been a well-acted but toothless reprisal, and she does so effortlessly.
As much as “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” insists Rory is garbage, it does crack his veneer long enough for us to glimpse some sincerity. When a local priest (Burn Gorman) asks him if he's afraid, Rory emphatically breathes, “Yes! I'm sh****ng my pants.” It's the only honest thing we ever hear him say, revealing potential layers he doesn't want his family to see. For that reason and others, close-reads of both Delia and Rory are as rewarding for the viewer as they probably were for O'Hara and Theroux. O'Hara makes Delia feel lived-in and real. Referring to Charles as her “horny handyman” and admitting she liked Lydia “before the money” clue us into what she's been up to since we last saw her. She's done things, been places and had a life with her husband to which we feel privy despite decades apart. Ryder and Keaton catch us up in the same sly way.
Franchise newbie Dafoe can't build from the same foundation as O'Hara, but that hardly matters. His part is as out of left field as Theroux's and we wouldn't have it any other way. He doesn't impact the plot in any significant way, and his character isn't especially interesting or good at what he does. He knows it, too. He's merely an actor playing an actor playing a ghost detective, making his disastrous investigation into another new character named Delores' (Monica Bellucci) murder spree less of a chore than it seems. Watching Dafoe alchemize an otherwise tedious subplot through sheer commitment to camp holds a specific, probably esoteric beauty that justifies his place in the film.
It's tempting to attribute the film's high quality to the cringe trinity, but the entire cast is giving it everything they have. Returning stars Michael Keaton (AKA, the ghost with the most himself, Beetlejuice) and Ryder are phenomenal and vital to the film's appeal, and while their importance can't be overstated, they serve different purposes than most of their fellow characters. Wide-eyed, wild-haired, and disheveled, Keaton's crusty trickster still invokes the patron demon of late-stage crack addiction, bringing with him the same wily unpredictability that made him such a hoot last time. Ryder, meanwhile, offsets the craziness around her with mostly muted reactions and a “take it as it comes” grit. Her onscreen daughter, Astrid (Jenna Ortega) is similarly measured in how she handles her unusual circumstances.
Sequels often underwhelm, but “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” overcomes low expectations with more wit, verve and heart than most of its ilk. If Burton's latest enjoys even a fraction of its predecessor's longevity, it'll be due to a supporting cast so good they sideline Keaton's undead spazz and breathe fresh, quirky life back into a dying IP.
