The simple fact that an old movie is beloved, fondly remembered, or the object of cult fascination does not necessarily mean it has lasting cultural currency. After all, we live among a tidal wave of so-called content that recycles the cinematic highlights and lowlights of the 1980s, but so many of these reboots and rehashes cease to have meaning in a contemporary context. For example, the original Ghostbusters, from 1984, was a peppy brief on behalf of the Reagan-era pro-capitalist, anti-regulatory ethos, but the new films in the franchise have been stripped of this DNA: They are, merely, exercises in sentimental nostalgia.
Yet Tim Burton’s schizoid netherworld farce Beetlejuice is that ’80s-era entertainment that was certainly sharp and shapely in its own time but looks downright tailor-made for ours. The film’s arch, postmodern, non-sequitur-dependent sense of humor is essentially the default style of most modern screen comedy, and its indulgence in an amalgamation of autumnal devilry and occult mysticism is reflected in everything from the popularity of Netflix’s Stranger Things to the ubiquity of pumpkin-spice seasoning. Want to bet that most audiences are more familiar with the Handbook for the Recently Deceased than the Psalms?
