What do you think, does an aged old granny swoon for this?
An era of swashbuckling gypsies and the languor of seances in flowing robes and head-dresses with an inflated role for himself as a ghoul of intrigue. Only the latest as “you’re looking at the most eligible bachelor since Rudolph Valentino came over, babe”.
Flashbacks. . . . . wake me when it’s over.
Like a cameo in the silent-film era, Beetlejuice has been far and wide at a reputed 700 years old, copying his moves from bygone matinee idols like so much graveyard dirt and rusted-out film-cans “that belong in a museum”.
The magic, the charm, the vomit. . . . . he’s got a way with the ladies as he goes to a funeral home to pick-up dates. Over-the-top gestures and gnarly-eyebrows as he hams it up like a silent-screen villain and chases a woman around the palace.
And there, he thunks on an organ like a vulgar aristocrat in a turban. His old pet dog nods-along, an audience unto palm-fronds and seances and hanging-curtains like a home movie– repackaged and sold from aged, musty prints and how the flickering image charms and beguiles across golden, hazy celluloid memories.
You had to be there. . . . .