(Or maybe not)…..
we must make a movie pleasant to the sensibilities of the ticket-buying public.
Here’s an Article about How Harry Belafonte got involved with the original “Beetlejuice”.
Yes, “they all begin like Pee Wee”….. the moldy, shut-in basement where you make friends with sock-puppets and otherwise peek out the window in tight gray slacks and tip-toe “hi-tops”. If it’s not eventual state institutionalization, then maybe it’s the theater-club.
Be it odd make-believe orr the kind of home that stocked yogurt-covered pretzels as “Jr.” sipped yogurt from a straw like a hookah from the world of Tim Burton arabesque, there’s a place for boys like Pee Wee. The neighborhood misfit no one pays attention to, only thinking “he’s pretty weird” like damaged goods and queasy “opt-outs”. For certainly, there’s no depth “too low” for someone like Pee Wee to tragically regress. . . . . . when one’s youth of Saturday-morning cartoons “goes into overtime” and you find yourself a twisted, if sexually-frustrated teenager “who clings to second-hand tv re-runs” like a life-line.
“The Play-House of Horrors”. . . . . And whether Pee Wee is your potential “Jeffery Dahmer” in the making, rolling out the barrels of acid down at “Apartment 213” and a severed head leering out of the refrigerator as police fumigate the building in haz-mat suits.
Maybe it could be said Pee Wee “is the prey”, more likely– akin to a rabbit snatched-off in a fox’s mouth like the darker side of nature, human and otherwise.
That’s what I tend to think.
Ask not of what the door-to-door meat-man sells you, as it’s Beetlejuice “down the street”. He’ll give “Groundhog’s Day” a whole new meaning as the earth is emptied of fresh cadavers and resold to the unsuspecting like a comedy horror-show.
In the world of “gray market” frauds, bootlegs, imitations, and “CASH-ONLY EXCHANGE”, I’d say “that he’s been sleazing around your neighborhood, recently”. Return home to a house spurting water, stripped of all the copper-piping as you hear vague reports of a seedy truck parked around town “and disappearing, suddenly”.
“Coast to Coast A.M” attracts the moths of some ungodly hour like a camp-fire of space legends and supernatural rumor. The lonely, the unemployed, the night-shift, the susceptible as millions tune in to hear strange tales like freaky futurism and ancient alien astronomy that takes a page straight from the old “X-Files”.
The dark groan of the highway and tingling signals of terrestrial talk-radio as anything seems possible. As the world sleeps, idle thoughts away from the rhythm of the ole’ punch-clock and working week. Mysterious, pondering at the night sky—the third stone from the sun, as mix LSD with psychotropic medicine, or maybe just a whole hell of a lot of gas station coffee and the fevered unknown.
The last neighborhood in America. . . . . subconscious dream-states and murky existence where a great deal of Beetlejuice lives like the beckoning legs of a trap-door spider and the whites of his hyper-active ghoulsh eyes like a salesman from the outer limits.
Alien abductions. . . . . “picking-up earth-women”.
Cattle mutilations. . . . . “anyone up for a BBQ?”
The land of 24-hour diners & truck-stops like 3 A.M. breakfasts and cagey, libertarian constitutionalism with the right to self-defense like a laser pistol in some James Cameron movie.
Announcing THE BEETLE HOUSE.
A fine eatery under moon-blue neon and surrealist flavors, themed after the films of Tim Burton to the sounds of Pee-Wee calypso. A charred skull grips a rose in its teeth under the whirly-twirly pin-stripes of spirals and snake-head into the pin-prick of fairy-land oblivion as a waitress refills your ice tea with olive laurels in her hair. The munificent shadow-world beckons to the dance of dead autumn leaves as somber merriment shall partake in a varied and artisanal menu of good eats and finer fellowship. Open now in New York—for the savvy and pop-cultured best of nightlife.
For youthful, fresh perspectives– you can’t go wrong with local community radio as kids have the naivete and faithlessness to declare themselves a punk princess impressio in a doll-house of young, kicking energy for the sake of local interest and avoiding true career callings. Lydia runs along the punk/artistic circles and gleefully drags-along her clique of oddball friends, like “skate-rats”, “hippie-girls”, and street characters as they bicker around themselves and fill in stretches of dialogue in the glittering hang-out of Utopia Studios.
The odd, the strange, the unusual, the transgressive– bands playing and imagery flashing on from a projector “like a real head-trip”. Below is footage of Nirvana playing at a campus studio up at Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington. You can see ingenious blue-screen tricks and some of what’s in the background is from Haxan, a 1922 Swedish/Danish film that was once narrated by Beat oddball, William S. Burroughs.
An hallucinogenic trip for kids dancing and writhing in the strobe-lights to strange energies as it gives you more of a feel for who Lydia is, or what’s true to her character as you can’t write-down this stuff, necessarily– only watch and appreciate.