Director: Tim Burton
Tim Burton, R.I.P.! Alas, such epitaphic exclamations can no longer be uttered in good faith. Not even after this Big Fish of syrupy Americana swallowed a master of Hollywood Gothic, making a comfortable denizen of this-worldly Yankeeism out of him. And what could his neurotic fandom from the netherworld (People Like Us) do in such circumstances, but twiddle thumbs despairingly.
Never mind if Burton is no Edgar Allan Poe, Albrecht Durer and Ray Bradbury, rolled into one. But the sight of him—this sculptor of darkly humorous dystopias (even the relatively insipid Planet of the Apes)—wallowing in gooey MacHope one fine sunny American day can only leave his adepts with severe withdrawal symptoms and a swinish grimace.
Which detox centre did Burton spend time in before he emerged to fry Big Fish? They surely sent him back infected with that fatal virus of optimism. And so,...