Halloween has arrived early as yet another movie turned musical hits the West End. This art deco theatre is now a haunted house festooned with purple and green lights. A sandworm slithers around the auditorium and it all kicks off with an evil cackle. Tim Burton’s 1988 fright-night favourite is reanimated with song and dance as, to give it the full name, Beetlejuice: The Musical. The Musical. The Musical. Bring on the skeletal chorus line!
You may find Christmas has come early, too, due to the panto level of random gags, topical references, direct audience address and chaotic spirit. There are jokes about hipster vapes, six-seven (groan), James Corden and plenty of heresy against musical-theatre royalty, from a quip about Andrew Lloyd Webber’s decapitated head to two foul-mouthed tirades against the West End’s adored new arrival, Paddington Bear. All distract from the carefully designed worlds of the story.
Michael Keaton had only 17 minutes of screen time in the first Beetlejuice film, giving his super creep a jack-in-the-box shock. The musical, staged on Broadway in 2019, foregoes the less-is-more approach. It has barely begun before Beetlejuice gatecrashes to mock the heartfelt prologue (“Holy crap, a ballad already?”), coke-snorting and crooning in his signature striped suit. With shades of the anarchic teacher he played brilliantly in School of Rock, David Fynn certainly isn’t short of juice in the lead role.
At one point Fynn gives a Scooby Doo-style “ruh roh” and there is an appealing puppyishness beneath his bio-exorcist but his scattershot dialogue as the plot ventures in and out of the Netherworld quickly becomes tiresome. It’s like watching a certain type of Netflix megastar standup desperate to cause outrage. The show is at pains to tell you how wild it is, the host more boorish than creepily grotesque.
And yet … There’s an awful lot to enjoy in Alex Timbers’ off-kilter production, with uncanny lighting by Kenneth Posner and trippy projections from Peter Nigrini. Set designer David Korins gives devilishly clever makeovers to the house where milquetoasts Adam and Barbara Maitland (David Hunter and Chelsea Halfpenny, both excellent) discover they are newly deceased. Excelling in her solos, Hannah Nordberg brings drop-dead energy to furrowed adolescent Lydia Deetz, who promptly moves into their home.
Alasdair Harvey is suitably salacious as Lydia’s dad Charles who, after her mum’s death, has hooked up with life coach Delia (Aimie Atkinson), wound as comically tight as her topknot. Charles G LaPointe’s hair and wig designs work wonderfully weird magic (Chasity Crisp’s coiffure is like a wisp of her cigarette smoke) while William Ivey Long’s inspired costumes range from the toxic yet sparkly Miss Argentina (Vanessa Aurora Sierra) to Lydia’s spidery black lace. Seeing shrunken-head guy in the flesh is a treat.
There are the added delights of Jeremy Chernick’s special effects, Michael Weber’s illusions and Michael Curry’s puppets, all of which leave you wanting more. A roast pig sits bolt upright during the dinner-party possession, when Charles hosts equally grotesque guests, the sequence set to Day-O (The Banana Boat Song) as in the film.
A Danny Elfman influence can be detected in Kris Kukul’s orchestrations but composer-lyricist Eddie Perfect packs in a variety of styles, including a ghoulish high-school pep band (choreography by Connor Gallagher). Lydia and the Maitlands’ transformations through song are done well but the duet between Delia and Lydia could make more musical difference from their clashing personalities. The numbers are entertaining but oddly unmemorable.
Away from Beetlejuice’s shock-jock outbursts, Scott Brown and Anthony King’s book has some messages about the universal need to be seen and embracing life. Nordberg does a lot of work to ensure there is an emotional anchor in a fun, fitfully frustrating evening. Enjoy the sandworm, just don’t expect earworms.