BEETLEJUICE (1988) review

Hey, so remember there was a time when a Tim Burton film didn’t deal with Johnny Depp in a weird hat? Or Johnny Depp in weird make-up? Or Johnny Depp doing a stupid accent? I went traveling back to that magical time tonight before goth was just another cliche and I could enjoy Jeffrey Jones’ work before realizing he was a sexual predator.

We all like BEETLEJUICE, right? It’s campy, hip and vulgar, but pretty sweet and corny (I always imagined me and my wife enduring purgatory with the same affection Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis do). And it’s funny. Who doesn’t have a deep fear that the Afterlife will be just a complex bureaucracy filled with indifference and red-tape?

I know there’s a lot of excitement every few weeks when a possible sequel is bandied about. That kind of talk does nothing for me. BEETLEJUICE was an odd duck out even when it was released. That’s why it’s so adored. I have a sneaky feeling any visit back to the sandworms and shrimp hands will make me sing “daylight come, and me wanna’ go home.”