Beetlejuice in the West End – review

Let’s face it, West End musical fans have been saying the word Beetlejuice more than the requisite three times in the desperate hope of seeing the much-loved musical make its way across the Atlantic.

First seen in Washington DC in 2018 (the devious ghost Beetlejuice not the only suit-wearing horror show taking up residence in the city at the time), the show amassed a gargantuan assortment of fans when it landed on Broadway in 2019, sparking fan clamour for the show to hop over to London.

It has taken almost seven years since its New York run began for this to happen (there may have been conversations of something earlier, but it seems the pandemic disrupted plans), with the show now settling in for an 11-month spell at the Prince Edward Theatre.

The good news is, book writers Scott Brown and Anthony King’s take on the irreverent 1988 film has lost none of the cheeky charm that seduced so many American audiences. Replete with new, UK-oriented jokes (a few gags about Paddington drew huge laughs, and quite a few gasps), it redraws Tim Burton’s original material, rejigs the plot and twists the ending into a largely satisfactory paint-by-numbers night out – a perfect replacement for the other musical crowdpleaser based on a cult classic 1980s movie, Back to the Future, which closed last month.

The plot builds on the beats of the initial film, cutting and rearranging where necessary. A loving couple, the Maitlands, find themselves on the wrong side of the afterlife after an unfortunate encounter with faulty wiring, now destined to haunt their former home as real estate developer and widower Charles Deetz and his grieving daughter Lydia move in, alongside “life coach” and Charles’ new fling Delia. Naturally, chaos, haunting and “The Banana Boat Song” all ensue, and Brown and King inject well-considered pathos across the runtime, particularly between Lydia and her father.

The biggest change – the quirky eponymous demon, who has a remarkably small role in the actual film, is now our host for the evening – deploying shockingly filthy direct address as he connives to bring about his own return to visibility when his name is said three times. It’s a neat framing device, allowing the show to stand on its own feet rather than feeling like a formulaic carbon copy of the film.

A musical, of course, has to deliver on the music, and it’s fair to say that some of Eddie Perfect’s numbers have already been catapulted into musical theatre hall-of-fame – there were doubtless hundreds of eager fans who knew every word to “Say My Name” (this critic included). There are also a few duds along the way – the show could lose a ballad or reprise and only gain as a result.

The rock score is delivered here with gusto by a top-tier cast steered by director Alex Timbers – audition staple and fan favourite “Dead Mom” is given a note perfect rendition by Hannah Nordberg as the goth-teen Lydia, while Waitress alumni Chelsea Halfpenny and David Hunter bring cutesy chemistry to the Maitlands in numbers like “Barbara 2.0.” There’s equally sublime work from Aimie Atkinson as aphorism-spouting Delia, and a sorely-underused Richard Frame as fraudulent guru Otho.

Lighting (Kenneth Posner) and sound (Peter Hylenski) are true to the standard Burton expectations, while conjuring all the right “Disneyland Halloween theme” vibes. William Ivey Long’s variety of costumes are a moribund menagerie of premium offerings, especially for those coming up from the Netherworld.

David Korins’ set has had something of a downgrade from its first two Broadway stints (it’s had three, because, you know, three times etcetera), flimsier and cartoonishly threadbare. All too often, performers have to end their numbers in front of a curtain while a set change takes place behind cover in order to keep the pace up. It’s distracting, pulling the character out of their environment and disrupting the scene.

Ultimately the show has to live or die by its central performance. Broadway star Alex Brightman, with a voice like gravel that is a complete ode to the work of film star Michael Keaton, truly made the role his own – leaving monstrously large shoes for any successor to fill.

Brit David Fynn has the numbers down pat, and has fabulous chemistry with Hunter and Halfpenny, but is perhaps missing some of the malice and dark comedic verve that could add real jeopardy to proceedings. It means the show is constantly an amusing ride, but never really flashes its teeth.