Tim Burton: "Ed Wood"

Tim Burton will soon be in the news for "Dumbo," and I can't wait. Do you know what I sit around hoping for, in this world? I hope for a live-action remake of "Dumbo," with witchy Eva Green doing nefarious things in the shadows. And do you know who is here to supply my "fix"? It's Tim Burton.

One of the greatest things I bought this year was "Ed Wood," by Tim Burton. You can purchase it on Amazon. The opening credits involve spaceships and creatures from black lagoons and tombstones. Eerie high-pitched zombie music plays. You're swept into another world. The protagonist--whom Burton clearly loves--just wants to explore his interests through art. Those interests: outer space, cross-dressing, reviving the dead, squid-monsters. Ed Wood seems not to have talent, or a high level of quality control, but he has zeal. He has a thirst for improvisation. He has a vision, and he will stop at nothing to realize his dreams.

The greatness here is that you're not dealing with a standard biopic: The grand thing Ed Wood wants to achieve is not the end of apartheid, or a fabulous Ray Charles album, or, say, a renegotiation of LBJ's thoughts on race. No, it's "Plan 9 from Outer Space," which looks thoroughly awful.

And yet: A story happens when someone wants something, desperately, and must leap over various hurdles to get the thing desired. That's all you need. And "Ed Wood" has hurdles in spades. Mr. Wood doesn't have any money, so he agrees to cast a woman he (wrongly) believes is wealthy in the lead role (quid pro quo). This means enraging another woman--Wood's girlfriend, a terrible actress, and someone not drawn to self-reflection, wonderfully embodied by Sarah Jessica Parker--and actually saying goodbye to romance (at least for a while). Ed Wood recruits a genius--Bela Lugosi--to be in the film, but Lugosi's depression and his drug addiction create additional problems. (The mutual love between Wood and Lugosi is stunning--you can't make this stuff up--and even if "Ed Wood" had nothing else to offer, it would be memorable because of the chemistry between Johnny Depp and Oscar-winner Martin Landau.)

Burton brings the action to a fun, inevitable, ironic climax: He dreams up a meeting between Ed Wood and Orson Welles. It's not clear that these two ever did meet--though I guess it's not implausible, Hollywood being Hollywood--but veracity doesn't actually matter here. Whether or not Wood met Welles, we can imagine Wood "speaking to Welles" in his imagination. This is how young artists operate: They are in communion with the older artists they admire, even if only via imaginative reading, imaginative film-viewing.

Wood draws strength from Welles because he learns the problems he faces--bossy producers, erratic actors--are the problems all artists face. Not one us knows what he (or she) is doing. Knowing that he swims in the same sea of confusion that Welles swims in: This is what pushes Wood forward.

My sense is that people watch "Plan 9" now *because of* its badness. The wildness and implausibility and bizarre pacing: These things become their own form of art. Wood, an original, invents a new thing, a new genre. Burton's message: Who cares if you find fans in your own lifetime? Listen to the voice in your head, and have a good time, and you never know what kind of legacy you'll leave.

My fondness for Burton is matched by my fondness for David Fincher--and specifically for "Zodiac." Like "Ed Wood," "Zodiac" did not create a major buzz when it came out. Like "Ed Wood," "Zodiac" seems like a deeply personal statement: In depicting Jake Gyllenhaal's character's crazed obsession, Fincher seems to be telling us something about *his own* crazed obsession. A passion for crime-solving, a passion for storytelling: Is one thing really "saner" than another? We do the things we are driven to do. Good--and bad--changes result. You just have to be *you* ....

Anyway, if you're looking for a double-header, I recommend "Ed Wood" and "Zodiac." I can't think of a more inspiring bill-of-fare!

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic. She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

Liars and Saints

Search This Blog