They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Did they ever? If convention dictates that the average movie ought to follow at least some form of logical progression, the answer can only be no. Beetlejuice Beetlejuice – the rather marvellously titled follow up to 1988’s original ‘juice – is as zany an offering as anything in the Tim Burton catalogue to date, and all the better for it. All the better and, in a great many number of ways, the worse. Certainly, there’s nothing here to ingratiate newcomers nor win over the original skeptics. Put simply, Beetlejuice doubled is just as puerile, unfocused and weird as its forebear, and no less reliant on the talents of its gloriously gothic cast ensemble to tether its grounding.
In the same year Kirsten Dunst took her name as tribute for Alex Garland’s Civil War, seminal mid-century photojournalist Lee Miller receives the biopic treatment, courtesy of Ellen Kuras’ succinctly titled directorial debut. Set between 1937 and ‘45, bookended by a flirtation with ‘77, Lee charts Miller’s journey to the heart of the Second World War and her excavation of the damage it reaped. Her images remain as potent now as ever they were. If not so extraordinary in its own execution, the film warrants credit for the pains it takes stress quite why Miller alone could have taken them.
To give credit where due, It Ends With Us knows its likely audience. Or, rather, it knows exactly which quadrant in the four square it’s interested in and makes no bones about the chase. Based on the bestselling novel by self-publishing sensation Colleen Hoover, the film shoots from the hip in search of wildly underserved female filmgoers. This as Deadpool lops arms off in the screen next door – which is not to say Swifties don’t love Marvel too. Where that film scored massacres to Madonna, however, It Ends With Us tailors to Taylor. It’s a glossy and endlessly Instagrammable affair, with floral imagery and synthy soundtrack ballads deployed to almost parodic effect. Real life is messy, It Ends With Us is anything but.
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