The decline of Tim Burton

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice — so good, they named it twice. At least, that’s what you would have hoped. Unfortunately, Tim Burton’s latest movie is a dismally confused hotchpotch that aims for a curious mixture of comedy, mild horror and the usual Burton wackiness, along with performances from his regular actors including Michael Keaton, Jenna Ortega and Winona Ryder. Sequel to an Eighties curio that was diverting rather than brilliant in the first place, it has nevertheless capitalized on the ever-present vogue for nostalgia that has permeated theaters over the past few years. It made an astonishing $111 million at the US box office last weekend; the original grossed $75 million worldwide during its entire run at movie theaters, albeit the best part of four decades ago.

In any case, this is now one of Burton’s highest-grossing films already, and will no doubt enable this mercurial and deeply boring filmmaker to continue to plow the disappointing furlough that he has been pursuing ever since he began his career four decades ago. It is hard not to feel, when all is said and done, that Burton has been remarkably lucky — or, looked at another way, unlucky — with the mega-success of his first big hit, Batman. Ever since then, his films have largely been successful, resulting in his having directorial carte blanche, and they have only become more tedious and self-regarding as time has gone on.

There are highlights, of course. I have no idea if Burton will ever be allowed to reunite with his muse, the now all but canceled Johnny Depp, but the collaborations between the two produced Burton’s most affecting and emotionally resonant work, including his loving biopic Ed Wood, the surprisingly affecting Sondheim adaptation Sweeney Todd and, of course, Edward Scissorhands, which may still be Burton’s finest achievement, and indicates that he is a true artist under the trappings of a hack.

In the debit column, alas, there are so many more movies. I don’t know if anyone out there genuinely would want to sit through his appalling remake of Planet of the Apes, his half-hearted CGI desecration of Alice in Wonderland or his depressingly misguided version of Dumbo — the latter of which led him to declare that he would never work with Disney again, calling them “very homogenized,” in a fine example of the pot calling the kettle noir — but only the most committed Burton completist could watch his artistic decline and not feel a sense of sorrow.

Usually, directors of Burton’s stature operate on a “one for them, one for me” basis, taking the advantage that they have accrued from making a box-office hit and directing something heartfelt and personal and eccentric instead. The unfortunate realization post-Beetlejuice Beetlejuice is that it really was one for Burton, and that his personal projects now are a million miles away from the gentleness and quirk of Edward Scissorhands, being little more than aggressively mediocre exercises in faux-nostalgia. It has made their director an exceptionally wealthy man, and, perhaps, a satisfied one. For the rest of us, including those who admired him, this decline into the ordinary is a very steep, very sad one to watch.