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A Minimal Hollywood Classic: Beetlejuice and its Streamlined Narrative

Beetlejuice (1988) is an unforgettable film: a rollercoaster of anarchic excess that somehow has a stunningly simple, but brilliantly written plot.

Clocking in at only 92 minutes, the real magic of Tim Burton’s classic film is not only the outrageous visuals or the manic energy of Michael Keaton’s title character, but in the narrative restraint holding it all together.*

Beetlejuice gives us a killer lesson in narrative economy. Underneath the wild production design, cartoonish makeup, and peerless tone is a streamlined plot structure.

Get it? Keeping the story clean and structured allows everything else to run wild.

Let’s dissect how Beetlejuice uses a tight, minimal plot to create maximum impact.

*If it were only these two points, Beetlejuice Beetlejuice wouldn’t be such a terrible film. Alas–I waited 36 years for that shit and 6-year-old me is pissed.

Over-the-Top Style, Understated Structure

Visually, Beetlejuice bursts at the seams with its stop-motion sandworms, the town model, the Maitlands’ chintzy haunted house, and the Brazil-in-hell afterlife bureaucracy. It is not just a Burton-esque aesthetic; it’s perhaps the greatest single reference point for Burton’s aesthetic put to film.

This is not to mention Keaton as Betelgeuse–for my money, a career best–as the grotesque, foul-mouthed demon with green hair, rotten teeth, and the manic energy of a crack-addled game show host.

And yet when we compare this to the film’s actual protagonists, the Maitlands, we see the exact opposite. In many ways, they are forgettable. I mean I sort of forgot Alec Baldwin was even in it until the rewatch. The contrast is important, however.

The Maitlands ground the story. With such ludicrous characters as Betelgeuse and the Deetzes around, the audience needs someone they can relate to: a calm eye in the middle of Burton’s gothic projectile vomit.

Lest we forget, the Maitlands’ story is in fact the narrative spine of the film.

Plot as Framework: Nice, Clean Beats

Here’s a look at the film’s structure in nine clear beats. This framework is deceptively simple but carries the entire story:

Maitlands Die (Introduction)
The couple has a car accident mere minutes into the film. This isn’t even an inciting incident. It’s setup for the main tension: they are stuck in their own home, now ghosts.
They Discover the Handbook (Inciting Incident)
The Maitlands realize they’re dead and can’t leave the house. The discovery of the Handbook for the Recently Deceased begins their education as ghosts–and kicks off the plot in earnest.
The Deetzes Arrive (Act II)
Enter the antagonists: Charles and Delia Deetz (with Charles’ daughter Lydia in tow). The Deetzes are everything the Maitlands are not: loud, modern, urban, and totally opposite the Maitlands’ cozy sensibility. Conflict, naturally, arises.
The Maitlands Consult Juno and Attempt to Haunt (Rising Action)
Despite discovering an advertisement for a “bio-exorcist” called Betelgeuse, Juno, the Maitlands’ afterlife caseworker, tells them to stay away (at their own peril) and haunt the Deetzes themselves. The Maitlands prove hugely inept at haunting.
The Maitlands Summon Betelgeuse and the Dinner Sequence (Midpoint)
Frustrated, the Maitlands enlist Betelgeuse’s help. Complicating their lives by inviting this agent of chaos into their lives is the midpoint turn. Unsurprisingly, the “Day-O” possession scene is the film’s centerpiece, visually and narratively.
Juno Berates Maitlands; Lydia Almost Summons Betelgeuse (Falling Action)
Juno tells the Maitlands off for summoning Betelgeuse (who is now safely banished). While they’re away, a suicidally depressed Lydia nearly gets tricked into summoning him once more.
Otho Summons the Maitlands Against Their Will (Low Point)
Otho performs a (totally inept) séance and nearly resurrects the Maitlands; as their corporeal bodies begin to decay, they may be obliterated permanently.
Lydia Summons Betelgeuse (Act III)
In desperation, Lydia makes a deal with Betelgeuse to save the Maitlands: she will marry him if he can save the Maitlands.
Wedding and Resolution
Betelgeuse traps the Deetzes and banishes the Maitlands. Barbara rides in on a sandworm that eats Betelgeuse, saving Lydia. A new balance is found: the Maitlands and the Deetzes learn to co-exist.

Short Matters: Narrative Momentum

In Beetlejuice, no scene overstays its welcome. The pace is kinetic, but the story never feels rushed—because each beat has narrative purpose. Tight plotting enables creativity to explode around it without causing chaos.

All you have to do is look at the abysmal Beetlejuice Beetlejuice to see what’s unnecessary: too many competing narratives, unnecessary characters, a backstory for Betelgeuse, pointless throwback to the original’s wedding sequence, and a totally uncalled-for musical number.

In the brilliant original, however, Burton and screenwriters Michael McDowell and Warren Skaaren kept shit clean: one problem, one setting, one arc.

Beetlejuice has the feeling of a fever dream–but its tight narrative allows it to resolve. (If only we got that more regularly in dreams…).

Compare Beetlejuice to more recent CGI-heavy supernatural comedies with crazy-long third acts like Ghostbusters: Afterlife, Hocus Pocus 2.

Beetlejuice maintains its surreal logic because its plotline never buckles under the weight of fan service or over-explanation. In fact, the third act is simply a sprint to end from once Lydia summons Betelgeuse.

Betelgeuse: The Villain You Don’t Need to Explain

It’s worth noting that Betelgeuse doesn’t appear until nearly 40 minutes into the film. When he does, he dominates—but the film resists the temptation to explain him.

There’s no character motivation. There’s no explanation of his past, except for one minor mention that he was once Juno’s assistant.

He’s a he’s a “bio-exorcist” expelled from the afterlife bureaucracy. It’s tossed aside, never allowed to slow the film’s rapid pace. Betelgeuse works precisely because he is distilled chaos. Explaining him would ruin the point.

Today, you expect the villain’s childhood trauma/origin story to take half the runtime of the film. Shoot me now.

Beetlejuice trusts the audience to accept Betelgeuse’s madness on its own terms. Knowing what to leave out is good writing.

Implication, Not Exposition

The afterlife in Beetlejuice is one of the most inventive imagined realms in 80s cinema, filled with surreal details: suicide victims become civil servants, waiting rooms are full of mutilated souls, the Handbook for the Recently Deceased “reads like stereo instructions,” and time is illusory.

Of course someone could put all this stuff in a monologue, but it’s a lot more interesting for us to see it through images and situations.

Narrative implication–instead of explanation–is another form of minimalism.

The film trusts the audience to keep up. It doesn’t walk us through each of the ghostly rules one-by-one. Rather, it tosses us into the soup of its absurd logic. We need to figure it out from the inside out, just like our avatars, the Maitlands.

Character Threads Are Simple and Effective

The characters’ emotional arcs mirror the structural economy of the plot. Everyone has a clean, basic journey:

The Maitlands must evolve from passive, immaterial ghosts to active guardians of their home (and Lydia).
Lydia grows from morbidity-obsessed teenager to emotionally connected daughter figure–Lydia’s change, above all, maps the linking of the living and the dead.
The Deetzes remain annoying, but not poke-my-eyes-out-with-dull-sticks obnoxious as before.
Betelgeuse understandably has no arc–what lesson or character development could we possibly expect from chaos incarnate? Only that there is none and never will be.

Notice how the film has no unnecessary subplots or romantic arcs (again, contrast the vile sequel). All this adds up to a film that punches far above its weight in audience engagement.

Style Is Only Liberated When Structure Holds

The brilliance of Beetlejuice lies in how burdenless the story feels. The production design, acting choices, and makeup don’t need to carry thematic or narrative weight—they’re expressive, strange, and atmospheric precisely because the story is anchored.

Minimal plotting is a powerful tool in maximalist cinema: when everything else is flamboyant, the writing should be functional at most.

Lessons for Screenwriters

Keep the stakes clear. The Maitlands don’t want to “save the world” or “defeat evil.” They just want their house back. Simple. Relatable.
Every beat must matter. Beetlejuice wastes no scenes. Even “throwaway” jokes contribute to world-building or character.
Let performance do the heavy lifting. Much of Lydia’s character development, for example, comes from Winona Ryder’s stunning turn (rather than exposition).
Use escalation instead of complexity. The film doesn’t add plotlines or overcomplicate—it escalates existing tensions until a fucking sandworm dives through the ceiling.
Don’t over-explain fantasy. Rules must emerge through interaction, not exposition.

A Classic That’s Chaotic – But Clean

Beetlejuice is often remembered for its style, not its structure. But the only reason the style holds up—the reason the chaos feels fun and not frustrating (contrast that awful sequel again)—is because Beetlejuice’s story crafted with discipline.Beetlejuice reminds us that a wild movie doesn’t need a wild plot. It just needs a clean plot that knows when to get out of the way of the chaos.