Matthew Lillard Warns Netflix: Don’t Unmask What Makes Scooby-Doo Magic

Max Sterling, 2/1/2026Matthew Lillard, the voice of Shaggy, expresses cautious optimism about Netflix's upcoming Scooby-Doo reboot. He emphasizes the franchise's core themes of friendship and teamwork and warns against over-modernization that could dilute its charm. Will the new take capture the essence of what makes Scooby-Doo timeless?

There aren’t many Saturday morning cartoons with the staying power—or the sheer oddball charm—of Scooby-Doo. Here’s a world where a talking Great Dane out-eats most NFL linemen, his best buddy’s voice floats somewhere between ‘perpetually munchies’ and ‘eternal sophomore,’ and a triumvirate of teens, hair stubbornly perfect, repeatedly unmask the town’s worst-costumed adults. Formulaic? Sure. But if the formula works, it’s only because it doubles back toward something elemental and endearing.

Lillard stepped into the iconic green shirt for two of the early-2000s live-action films—those gloriously campy, sun-drenched iterations alongside Sarah Michelle Gellar, Freddie Prinze Jr., and Linda Cardellini (who really deserves a plaque for carrying both drama and deadpan in a franchise known for rubber monsters). He calls himself “sort of a purist.” Funny, isn’t it? In an era when every reboot promises to “reimagine for a new generation,” he just wants the wheels—Mystery Machine and otherwise—to keep turning for kids hungry for their first whodunit.

At the core, Scooby-Doo belongs to the guild of accidental morality plays, but with a flourish. Lillard notes, “The core of it is really about friendship. It’s really lovely, and I hope that they hold onto that.” The best cartoons aren’t just escape—they’re training grounds for empathy and basic trust. Even in the earliest episodes, the reveal is never just about the mask; it’s about the gang working together, pooling their doubts and oddball talents to confront something that’s—almost inevitably—just a greedy landlord in a tattered bedsheet. Scooby Snacks, in their way, are a metaphor for teamwork. Or bribery. Either/or.

It’s hard not to appreciate how easily Lillard pivots from twinkly nostalgia to unvarnished cultural commentary. He’s quick to spotlight the show’s time-honored lessons: friendship, persistence, and a healthy skepticism for authority figures with keys to the abandoned amusement park. “It’s about friendship and sticking together as a gang and working together to solve mysteries—and that normally it’s a dangerous white man behind a mask.” If only every civic lesson could be delivered with a can of whipped cream and a chase sequence.

This particular reboot—announced with the usual parade of press releases and strategic leaks—wants to wind the clock backwards, rewinding the gang to their last summer at camp. An origin story, then, instead of yet another extra-dimensional guest star… at least so far. No cast yet; just rumors and, of course, a steady drip-feed of speculation across fandom forums. Set for production in April 2025, with details kept under lock and key, like the secret recipe to Grandma’s goulash (and probably, the “right” version of Scooby’s voice).

But let’s give the room to one of the more anxious spirits in any reboot séance: over-modernization. Few pop culture properties survive the algorithmic tug-of-war between nostalgia and next-gen gloss. No franchise is immune to the siren song of “relevance,” the temptation to flatten all its quirks and eccentricities into something algorithmically bland. Lillard’s purism nudges at a broader point—Scooby-Doo works not because it bends to fit whatever’s trending, but because it refuses to take itself too seriously. There’s a stubborn, glorious weirdness at its heart. It really is, as he says, only “semi-scary,” striking that sweet spot where six-year-olds can feel like they’re teetering on the edge of true terror—and then laugh the moment the mask comes off.

Each reboot, in its own way, becomes a test strip for the audience’s pop culture anxieties. Will today’s parents—many of whom grew up with the original’s Hanna-Barbera cadence, or, at the very least, those perfectly-timed laugh tracks—embrace a version pitched to meme-savvy kids and “core four-quadrant” appeal? Is it inevitable that Velma ends up on TikTok, or the Mystery Machine trades in her diesel charm for a “smart” dashboard sponsored by whoever’s bought up half the internet ad space this month? Hard to predict. The property has withstood crossovers (“Scooby-Doo! Meets the Boo Brothers,” anyone?), outlandish spinoffs, and even the 2019 “Scooby-Doo and Guess Who?” series, which combined a kind of meta-winking with the classic formula. Doesn’t guarantee this next spin will stick the landing—blockbusters and cult favorites alike have derailed chasing too many ghosts at once.

If Lillard’s appeal sticks, Netflix’s incarnation will double down on what’s always worked. Friendship as glue. The unmasking as catharsis. That signature choke-point in every episode, when the villain sighs, “If it weren’t for you meddling kids…” There’s a ritual to this, almost timeless, that makes it as much coming-of-age folklore as mystery procedural. Scooby-Doo, at its best, becomes a safe proving ground, letting young viewers tiptoe toward what scares them—and, more importantly, discover the comfort in knowing the worst monsters are, more often than not, just grouchy grown-ups with a grudge and a fog machine.

This isn’t just IP churn; it’s cultural inheritance. Reboots like this are less about innovation than stewardship, a way of passing down that essential (and slightly silly) reassurance: together, even the creepiest manor can be tamed. Whether Netflix manages to bottle that familiar spark, or just lets it fizzle trying to outdo itself, is anyone’s guess. Maybe that’s how it should be. Mystery, after all, is the whole point.

Picture this: Matthew Lillard, forever etched into pop culture as the goofy-yet-heartfelt Shaggy, is fielding questions from an Entertainment Weekly reporter. Nostalgia in one hand, measured caution in the other, he’s clearly rooting for Netflix’s next lap around the Scooby-Doo track—though you can almost sense him hovering anxiously, like a parent watching their kid try a skateboard for the first time. “My general thought is that I’m really happy for them,” he says; it’s easy to imagine a hint of that classic Shaggy sincerity punching through, maybe even a soft grumble about missing sandwiches.There aren’t many Saturday morning cartoons with the staying power—or the sheer oddball charm—of Scooby-Doo. Here’s a world where a talking Great Dane out-eats most NFL linemen, his best buddy’s voice floats somewhere between ‘perpetually munchies’ and ‘eternal sophomore,’ and a triumvirate of teens, hair stubbornly perfect, repeatedly unmask the town’s worst-costumed adults. Formulaic? Sure. But if the formula works, it’s only because it doubles back toward something elemental and endearing.Lillard stepped into the iconic green shirt for two of the early-2000s live-action films—those gloriously campy, sun-drenched iterations alongside Sarah Michelle Gellar, Freddie Prinze Jr., and Linda Cardellini (who really deserves a plaque for carrying both drama and deadpan in a franchise known for rubber monsters). He calls himself “sort of a purist.” Funny, isn’t it? In an era when every reboot promises to “reimagine for a new generation,” he just wants the wheels—Mystery Machine and otherwise—to keep turning for kids hungry for their first whodunit.At the core, Scooby-Doo belongs to the guild of accidental morality plays, but with a flourish. Lillard notes, “The core of it is really about friendship. It’s really lovely, and I hope that they hold onto that.” The best cartoons aren’t just escape—they’re training grounds for empathy and basic trust. Even in the earliest episodes, the reveal is never just about the mask; it’s about the gang working together, pooling their doubts and oddball talents to confront something that’s—almost inevitably—just a greedy landlord in a tattered bedsheet. Scooby Snacks, in their way, are a metaphor for teamwork. Or bribery. Either/or.It’s hard not to appreciate how easily Lillard pivots from twinkly nostalgia to unvarnished cultural commentary. He’s quick to spotlight the show’s time-honored lessons: friendship, persistence, and a healthy skepticism for authority figures with keys to the abandoned amusement park. “It’s about friendship and sticking together as a gang and working together to solve mysteries—and that normally it’s a dangerous white man behind a mask.” If only every civic lesson could be delivered with a can of whipped cream and a chase sequence.This particular reboot—announced with the usual parade of press releases and strategic leaks—wants to wind the clock backwards, rewinding the gang to their last summer at camp. An origin story, then, instead of yet another extra-dimensional guest star… at least so far. No cast yet; just rumors and, of course, a steady drip-feed of speculation across fandom forums. Set for production in April 2025, with details kept under lock and key, like the secret recipe to Grandma’s goulash (and probably, the “right” version of Scooby’s voice).But let’s give the room to one of the more anxious spirits in any reboot séance: over-modernization. Few pop culture properties survive the algorithmic tug-of-war between nostalgia and next-gen gloss. No franchise is immune to the siren song of “relevance,” the temptation to flatten all its quirks and eccentricities into something algorithmically bland. Lillard’s purism nudges at a broader point—Scooby-Doo works not because it bends to fit whatever’s trending, but because it refuses to take itself too seriously. There’s a stubborn, glorious weirdness at its heart. It really is, as he says, only “semi-scary,” striking that sweet spot where six-year-olds can feel like they’re teetering on the edge of true terror—and then laugh the moment the mask comes off.Each reboot, in its own way, becomes a test strip for the audience’s pop culture anxieties. Will today’s parents—many of whom grew up with the original’s Hanna-Barbera cadence, or, at the very least, those perfectly-timed laugh tracks—embrace a version pitched to meme-savvy kids and “core four-quadrant” appeal? Is it inevitable that Velma ends up on TikTok, or the Mystery Machine trades in her diesel charm for a “smart” dashboard sponsored by whoever’s bought up half the internet ad space this month? Hard to predict. The property has withstood crossovers (“Scooby-Doo! Meets the Boo Brothers,” anyone?), outlandish spinoffs, and even the 2019 “Scooby-Doo and Guess Who?” series, which combined a kind of meta-winking with the classic formula. Doesn’t guarantee this next spin will stick the landing—blockbusters and cult favorites alike have derailed chasing too many ghosts at once.If Lillard’s appeal sticks, Netflix’s incarnation will double down on what’s always worked. Friendship as glue. The unmasking as catharsis. That signature choke-point in every episode, when the villain sighs, “If it weren’t for you meddling kids…” There’s a ritual to this, almost timeless, that makes it as much coming-of-age folklore as mystery procedural. Scooby-Doo, at its best, becomes a safe proving ground, letting young viewers tiptoe toward what scares them—and, more importantly, discover the comfort in knowing the worst monsters are, more often than not, just grouchy grown-ups with a grudge and a fog machine.This isn’t just IP churn; it’s cultural inheritance. Reboots like this are less about innovation than stewardship, a way of passing down that essential (and slightly silly) reassurance: together, even the creepiest manor can be tamed. Whether Netflix manages to bottle that familiar spark, or just lets it fizzle trying to outdo itself, is anyone’s guess. Maybe that’s how it should be. Mystery, after all, is the whole point.