Sending my thoughts to Catherine O’Hara’s family and friends today. I never had the privilege of working with her, but what a great talent. I loved her work so much that I wanted to dress up as her character from Beetlejuice a couple years ago.
Those words, posted by country music icon Reba McEntire on social media shortly after news broke of O’Hara’s passing, captured the raw, personal grief felt by millions. On January 30, 2026, Catherine O’Hara—the beloved Canadian-American actress, comedian, and writer whose razor-sharp wit and fearless performances lit up screens for over five decades—died at her Los Angeles home following a brief illness. She was 71.
The announcement from her agency, Creative Artists Agency (CAA), was simple and understated, much like the woman herself: she passed “following a brief illness.” No elaborate cause was given, though reports later noted her long-known rare condition, dextrocardia with situs inversus, where her heart and some organs sit on the right side of the body rather than the left. While not directly linked to her death, the detail resurfaced as fans and media reflected on a life lived vibrantly despite private health challenges.
O’Hara’s death sent shockwaves through Hollywood and beyond. Tributes flooded in from co-stars, directors, and admirers who had grown up quoting her lines, imitating her exaggerated gestures, or simply finding comfort in her ability to turn absurdity into something profoundly human. Michael Keaton, her longtime friend and Beetlejuice co-star, called her a “true friend” whose loss “hurts.” Tim Burton, who directed her in both Beetlejuice films, shared a behind-the-scenes photo from the 2024 sequel set, writing, “Catherine, I love you. This picture shows how much light you gave to all of us.” Macaulay Culkin, who played her on-screen son in Home Alone, mourned his “mama” with heartbreak visible in every word.
Yet amid the sorrow, Reba McEntire’s post stood out for its intimacy. The country legend admitted she never shared a set with O’Hara, but the actress’s work had touched her so deeply that she once considered dressing as Delia Deetz—the eccentric, art-obsessed stepmother from Beetlejuice—for a costume event. It was a small, telling anecdote: proof that O’Hara’s influence stretched far beyond comedy circles, into the hearts of people who simply loved great performance.
Born Catherine Anne O’Hara on March 4, 1954, in Toronto, Ontario, she grew up as the sixth of seven children in a lively Irish Catholic household. Her father worked for the Canadian Pacific Railway; her mother managed the home with a quick wit that O’Hara later credited as her first comedy teacher. Family dinners were loud, filled with impersonations and laughter—fertile ground for a future star. Among her siblings was singer-songwriter Mary Margaret O’Hara, whose artistic spirit mirrored Catherine’s own.
After high school, O’Hara waitressed at Toronto’s Second City Theatre, the legendary improv venue that launched countless careers. She became Gilda Radner’s understudy in 1974, stepping up when Radner left for Saturday Night Live. By 1976, O’Hara was a founding member of SCTV (Second City Television), where her uncanny impressions—of Lucille Ball, Katharine Hepburn, Brooke Shields, and more—earned her an Emmy for outstanding writing in a variety program. SCTV wasn’t just a job; it was a proving ground where she honed the blend of satire and warmth that defined her.
The 1980s brought her to film. Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice (1988) introduced her to a wider audience as Delia Deetz, the pretentious sculptor whose “Day-O” freak-out remains one of cinema’s most quotable moments. On set, she met production designer Bo Welch. Sparks flew; Burton encouraged Welch to ask her out. They married in 1992, and Burton gifted them a private Vatican tour as a wedding present—a quirky, fitting gesture for two artists who thrived on the unusual.
Welch and O’Hara built a life together, raising two sons: Matthew (born 1994), who followed his father into set construction, and Luke (born 1997), who pursued acting. O’Hara often called motherhood her most important role, balancing it with a career that never forced her to choose between family and art.
The 1990s cemented her status with Home Alone (1990) and Home Alone 2: Lost in New York (1992). As Kate McCallister—the frantic mother who forgets her son Kevin (Macaulay Culkin) at home—she delivered panic and heart in equal measure. Her scream upon realizing Kevin was missing became iconic; her determined journey back to Chicago embodied every parent’s worst nightmare turned comedic gold. The films grossed over $700 million combined and became perennial holiday staples.
Collaborations with Christopher Guest followed: Waiting for Guffman (1996), Best in Show (2000), A Mighty Wind (2003), and For Your Consideration (2006). In these mockumentaries, O’Hara improvised brilliance—whether as a travel agent with a secret past or a folk singer pouring emotion into every note. Her work earned critical acclaim and showcased her gift for finding humanity in eccentricity.
Voice roles added whimsy: Sally and Shock in Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993), and various characters in Frankenweenie (2012). But it was Schitt’s Creek (2015–2020) that crowned her a modern legend. As Moira Rose—the flamboyant former soap star banished to a small town—O’Hara unleashed wigs, vocabulary, and melodrama that became cultural phenomena. Lines like “bébé” and her fruit-wine tastings spawned memes and fashion trends. The show swept the 2020 Emmys; O’Hara won best actress in a comedy series—her second Emmy, 40 years after her first.
In later years, she stayed vibrant. She earned an Emmy nod for The Studio (2025) opposite Seth Rogen and took a dramatic turn in HBO’s The Last of Us as a therapist navigating dystopia. Turning 70 in 2024, she joked to Parade, “Still being alive!” On Julia Louis-Dreyfus’s podcast Wiser Than Me, she laughed about feeling like an “adorable old lady” among younger co-stars.
A 2013 Vanity Fair questionnaire revealed her playful side: she imagined dying “laughing, surrounded by my old grandchildren, who are telling me to ‘let go, already, Grandma!’” She mused on reincarnation: “I’d like to come back in the body of a much more evolved person who has lovely, thick hair and skin that tans.” Those words, resurfaced after her death, invited reflection: How do we want to leave? O’Hara’s vision embraced humor even in mortality.
Her family planned a private celebration of life. Tributes continued: Eugene Levy called her “one of a kind”; Dan Levy shared memories of creating Moira together. Fans posted clips—Delia’s “supper club” meltdown, Moira’s “fold in the cheese,” Kate’s frantic airport dash—proving her work lives on.
O’Hara redefined comedy for women, proving eccentricity could be empowering. From SCTV sketches to Moira’s monologues, she showed vulnerability as strength. In a world too serious, she reminded us to laugh—at ourselves, at life, even at death.
Reba McEntire’s wish to dress as Delia Deetz speaks volumes: O’Hara’s characters weren’t just roles; they were invitations to joy, absurdity, and courage. As we mourn, we celebrate a woman who made the ridiculous profound, the over-the-top endearing, and the everyday extraordinary.
What if we all aimed to exit stage left, giggling? Her story urges us: Grab the punchline, hold loved ones close, let laughter echo eternally. Catherine O’Hara didn’t just perform—she illuminated. And in the quiet after the curtain falls, her light still shines.
