Tim Burton doesn’t need a hit, Tim Burton just needs a good film. To use a football analogy, the director’s projects of late are the equivalent of 4-4-2: it’s unimaginative but solid, dependable. There’s nothing like aping former glory (Frankenweenie) or a biopic (here it’s M.D.H Keane) to steady a ship and stop the rot. There’s a popular theme too: men are incorrigible monsters, idiots who delight in dominating women. "Art should elevate, not pander," Terence Stamp’s art critic says at one point. Hmm.
"The fifties were good… if you were a man." Escaping her deathly dull 1950’s neighbourhood and her domineering (but unseen) husband, painter Margaret Ulbrich (Adams) takes her daughter to San Francisco where she meets wannabe scenic painter Walter Keane (Waltz). Margaret’s touching paintings of children with large eyes become a small sensation but because "people don’t buy lady art" she and hubby Walter decide that he take credit and make them both money. As Walter enters the spotlight and becomes a media darling, Margaret begins to wish the plaudits be directed her way…
"Man is head of the household. Perhaps you should trust his judgement." Burton sets out to explore the plight of women (both in the fifties and today) but doesn’t have anything to say. Adams’ Keane finds herself in a soulless hole with zero ambition - "I was a daughter, then a wife, then a mother" - but Big Eyes dares not near the dark depression at the heart of Mad Men’s Betty Draper or Revolutionary Road’s April Wheeler. It stays frothy, cute, pretty. Proto feminist Krysten Ritter pops by every now and then but all she does is shake her head at the sorry state of affairs.
Men here are buffoons. Waltz’s prancing Keane is a dope. He is easily flummoxed when questioned about ‘his’ inspiration, but surely he would have better, or any, answers at the ready, and would know what painting is acrylic and what is oil. That’s just lazy writing. He’s a cartoon character - at one point he is his own lawyer and witness, jumping from the witness stand and back again a la Woody Allen in Bananas. Suddenly, however, we’re asked to believe he’s a dangerous ogre, an abusive drunk prone to violence; while this one scene in the context of the film doesn’t wash it is indicative of the tonally wonky proceedings. Big Eyes is unsure if it’s a bubbly comedy or a drama.
It’s not Waltz’s best turn but at least he’s the most interesting character and he’s lively. A forgettable Adams is stuck with a non-entity, a character as bland as her husband’s street scenes. She has nothing to do and nothing to say. This may be the point – that women were merely supporting characters in life – but it doesn’t make for an interesting heroine or a dynamic story. The only other character of note is Danny Huston’s columnist who inexplicably narrates.
A stronger question at the heart of the film would be regards to art, which is oddly ignored: Why is it not enough to create great art that touches people? Is it for nothing without the acclaim, the kudos, the praise?
