I always wondered what Tim Burton looked like. Not until the era of the Internet Movie Database could I grab a head-shot and find out for myself.
With his arty shock of hair, Tim Burton speaks for every misfit who dwelled in his parents’ basement and as if I’m not one to talk– always one fascinated by the world of enchantment from a very young age.
I grew up with his movies.
It’s that certain-trope– rough, wind-bumpted Claymation with leering grins and pin-prick eyes unto a playhouse, or maybe faerie tales– or superhero movies. . . . . wholly inventive, weird, whimsical and darkly imaginative. It bespoke of exotic foods like yogurt-covered pretzels and various spiced snacks as I’d watch PBS children’s programming after school, off at friends’ houses like a fruity, alternative flavor that belied all the shadowy mysteries, existing outside of time itself as we watched Faerie Tale Theatre.
Frequently starring title characters as misfits and outsiders, or even a coiffured poodle riding in the passenger-seat of a red convertible like nightmarish “California’ dreamin” on this side of Pee-wee’s Playhouse, everything that has turned moldy and off-color about the 1960’s like cleaning chemicals and weird goofuses in young family portraits.
Like some sort of inverse, backwards mirror as a window into another world, a bit like yours and mine but only stranger. As the Pee-wee doll says when you pull the string, “I know you are– but what am I?” Like marionette puppet-house theater and punk rockers with the smell of art-room paint. Like, weird. . . . . but wonderfully so.
The art department had a lot to do on Beetlejuice. I look forward to this project.