The long-awaited sequel to Beetlejuice does not disappoint. The old Tim Burton has returned - who knows how briefly - to re-hash his idea of the netherworld as a calypso club, and to continue lobbying for his pet cause, the right of the living to marry cadavers. In Beetlejuice, the corpse was seeking a breathing bride to transport him out of the land of the dead. In Corpse Bride, the afterlife is now the hottest ticket in town. The assorted ghouls mambo past the bone xylophones, perform skeleton skat, and only pause the bacchanal long enough to snicker at the saps who still insist on staying above ground. You half-expect Winona Ryder to levitate up into the frame, to jump in the line and rock her body in time.