Edward Scissorhands is the only film in his career (aside from his Frankenweenie remake) that Tim Burton
produced, wrote the story for, and directed. Perhaps because of this creative
control and singularity of vision, it remains his best film. It's Burton at his
Burtoniest, before he became overly self-conscious of his own style and the
expectations thereto. Pee-Wee hinted
at it, Beetlejuice pioneered it, Batman appropriated it, but Edward perfected it, solidifying Burton-esque
as a new and exciting aesthetic in cinema.
Right
from the opening credits, his filmic fingerprints are all over the movie. The
titles slice across the screen while the camera pans steadily through a shadowy
assembly line to a frighteningly epic, factory-march musical score. Burton uses
this exact same opening in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Sweeney Todd.
Then
there’s the darkly clad and mysterious anti-hero, the brassy and choral score,
the Gothic mansion, dusty staircases, looming statues, imposing backdrops,
giant cogs, small town gossip, xenophobia, isolation, cobwebs, death, cavernous
set pieces, absurdist humour, miniature models of houses, anthropomorphic
machinery, and, of course, a healthy dose of Depp.
But
unlike much of his later work, Edward
Scissorhands is not Burtony for the sake of being Burtony. It is not straining
to look creepy and twisted, like all Tim Burton films apparently have to. Edward uses his Gothic aesthetic to
deepen character and create contrast, and everything shown on screen enhances
the telling of his story. Edward’s gargantuan mansion, perched atop the
absurdly huge hill overlooking the town, is miles taller than any of the pastel
bungalows below. It’s full of darkened corridors and bulbous robots, and the
secluded garden, with its majestic shrub-giants, is stunningly beautiful – but
the house is not there just to look cool (although, to be clear, it looks super
freakin cool). The mansion is a visual representation of the isolation Edward
feels from the rest of the town.
Edward
Scissorhands succeeds in all aspects. Every corner of this film is
meticulously crafted and elevates the whole into something more than just a
good movie. This is one of those perfect storms wherein all the
pieces come triumphantly together and a visionary storyteller working at the
top of his game is able to express something unique, enduring, and undiluted.
This is a special movie.
For
starters, the acting is deceptively first-rate. Johnny Depp, with his stilted
movements, solid black contact lenses, and perpetually pursed lips gives a
wonderfully reserved yet touching performance. He has a difficult task in
Edward, but he walks the lines between slapstick and sensitivity, human and
machine, weirdo and everyman, with remarkable deftness. When I think of the
vastness of Depp's range (and yes, I sometimes do), I put Edward on one end and
Hunter Thompson on the other – with Ed Wood somewhere in the middle.
Dianne Wiest and Alan Arkin are both pitch-perfect as the suburban mom and dad. Here
are two great actors fleshing out what could be forgettable supporting roles
with performances that add humour and humanity to the film. Peggy Boggs is
almost nauseatingly perky (a side effect of being an Avon lady, surely), but Wiest
colours her with bouts of sudden frustration atop a calm undercurrent of
motherly kindness. Arkin is terrific as the quintessential Dad, oblivious to
most things save for ball games, fiscal responsibility and ethical pop-quizes.
Often, in my head, I hear Bill Boggs belting out “I Saw Three Ships” as he
staples sheets of fake snow to his roof in the night.
Kathy Baker does a great job as the libidinous Joyce, representing the gossipy,
fickle townspeople who are desperate for, yet terrified of, change. A
surprisingly bulky Anthony Michael Hall is suitably eruptive and douchey as the
villainous boyfriend, Jim. And of course, in his last feature film, Vincent Price is the perfect choice for Edward's reclusive, eccentric inventor. Price
is delightful in his few scenes, until his character prophetically collapses on
the mansion floor, dead. Though they only worked together twice, Burton and
Price pair so well together that it feels like he is somewhere to be found in
all of Burton's worlds, plotting away in an old mansion somewhere just off
screen.
Even
Winona Ryder, in all her doe-eyed yearning, delivers a nice arc for Kim. She
begins as a self-absorbed teenager who hates this grotesque stranger who has
invaded her home – as no doubt a teenager would – but by the end of the film
she softens to the point of loving Edward in all his oddity. Ignoring her
unfortunate scenes as old Kim which bookend the film (why Burton insisted on
Ryder playing that part is another of the film’s glorious mysteries) she is solid
and moves believably from obnoxious to sweet to lovely.
Yet
the acting doesn't necessarily leap out as being brilliant in this film, only
because every other aspect is executed so well. The score is powerful and
moving, another highlight in Burton’s career-long collaboration with Danny Elfman. Like the film, it oscillates between light and dark, with ethereal,
choral tones, and deep, driving percussion and brass.
Despite
being a bizarre fantasy, Edward
contains real emotional poignancy. The inventor’s death, moments before he can
complete his creation, is tragic. When Kim asks why he broke into Jim’s house
when he knew she was lying to him, Edward’s response of "because you asked me
to” is an exceptionally heart-wrenching moment (not to mention his classic
response to Kim asking him to hold her in his arms: “…I can’t.”). But Edward is also remarkably funny. This is
helped by the fact the actors never play up the humour (with the possible
exception of Kathy Baker). They play the surreal, suburban concerns of their
small town society with utter honesty. In the same way, after Edward uncovers
his talents as a barber, the townsfolk spend the remainder of the movie
sporting insanely elaborate, sculpted hair-dos, but attention is never called
to it. It's up to the audience to notice and appreciate.
The
pacing of the film is finely tuned. Immediately we are introduced to the bleak,
muted world of the suburbs, to Peggy, to Edward's mansion, to Edward, and after
only fifteen minutes he has been brought to the Boggs' home and thrust upon the
town. Then we slow down and stay with Edward, seeing the town through his eyes.
It's not until half an hour later that we meet young Kim, the love interest and
driving force of much of the film’s subsequent action. At this point we already
know Edward and are on his side. The film ramps up a tad unnaturally at the
very end, to a somewhat clichéd climactic action scene between hero and
villain, but the story has been so skillfully told throughout that this,
presumably, can be forgiven.
The
costume and set design in Edward is phenomenal and very possibly its
crowning achievement. Although it was only nominated for a best makeup Oscar,
it won the BAFTA for best production design in 1990 (leave it to the Brits to
get it right). The production design is gorgeously eye-popping, but it somehow
doesn't overshadow the film or take away from the story.
Edward showcases two
worlds: the eerie setting of Edward’s mansion, and the vacuous,
Easter-egg-coloured neighbourhood below. The houses are cookie cut-outs of each
other, distinguishable only by the various pastel paints on the exterior. The
rest of town is equally bleak and oppressive. The police cars have merely the
word “POLICE” unimaginatively written on their sides, and a singular, imposing
“BANK” sign in massive, dirty capitals sits atop the bank’s entrance. There
seems to be no shade along the streets, no trees (though lots of shrubs), and
the suburban bungalows squat low beneath an oppressively monochrome sky. Even
the cars and costumes of the townsfolk follow the pastel colour palette, with
lots of neon slacks and floral dresses. The living rooms are exaggeratedly
large and empty, revealing the hollowness of the lives of those inside them.
Although
it’s all greys and blacks and shadows, the dark world of the inventor’s mansion
turns out to be far more colourful than the rest of the town, aligning the
audience’s empathy with Edward, the outsider. The contrast of these two worlds
beautifully displays the disconnect between him and the rest of ‘normal’
society. Despite his earnest efforts, the town is unwilling to overcome their
fear of the unknown, and Edward cannot fit in. Near the end of the film he
storms down the street, literally tearing apart the shackles of the conformist
world (his suburban clothes and suspenders) with the power of his unique
artistry (his scissorhands, in case it needs to be said).
Seven
of Burton’s last nine films have been remakes (!), but despite being 25 years
old next year, Edward Scissorhands
remains utterly inimitable. Nor is it dated. The visual effects, made entirely
with models and animatronics and painted backdrops, still hold up. And since
the film is an exaggerated impression of suburbia and not a realistic
recreation, it will remain timeless. I would also call it a masterpiece.
I
believe Edward is Burton, infecting the dull, repetitive society of Hollywood
with his ominous artwork. He transforms the uninspired landscape, leaving
behind monuments to his artistic novelty. At first he is sought after and
adored and emulated, until the society turns its back on him (sometime around Ed Wood, I’d say) and pretends they
never loved him in the first place.
Co-story
writer Caroline Thompson calls this film a fable. I guess she would know.
According to her, a fable “is a story that people don't necessarily believe,
but that they understand”. This is as pure a definition of fable as I’ve ever
heard, and an accuarate description of the movie. Most directly Edward Scissorhands is a fable
explaining where snow comes from – although the film does not address how Edward gets his scissorhands on all those mammoth
blocks of ice sitting in the attic of his mansion. And nor should it.
More
importantly though, Edward is a
beautiful and touching fable about being different, about owning your oddity
and how fitting in is not always possible, or even preferable. It’s about how
the desire for being accepted and loved is often misinterpreted. And how that
which makes you special, also makes you alone.
Though Benjamin Lancaster lives in Toronto, he will always have been born in Guelph. He writes mostly fiction, but will write non-fiction if his friends ask him to, or if he thinks he might get money for it.
