Ed Wood
As someone who routinely bashes even well-regarded biopics, I know I’m not supposed to like this movie. It’s a fawning hagiography of a guy with more than a few obvious flaws, and it can’t avoid the usual biopic structure: First this happened, then this happened, etc. But you shouldn’t look to movie critics for consistency. “Ed Wood,” released in 1994, is delightful, because director Tim Burton attacks it with such panache. His interests in schlocky genre tropes aren’t so different from Wood’s — except he’s a rare, virtuosic talent. Luckily, in chronicling Wood — reputedly the worst director of all time — he doesn’t sink to Wood’s level. Burton’s visually exuberant biopic shows genuine affection for Wood and his misfit band of collaborators. “Filmmaking isn’t about the tiny details,” Wood exclaims, in a fit of pique. “It’s about the big picture!” Burton adores Wood’s enthusiasm while silently proving him wrong. He pays attention to all the details that breathe life into a picture — from the nuances of performance to wardrobe and lighting and production design. He achieves brilliant, unforced ironies — when Wood (Johnny Depp) talks about how “Plan 9 from Outer Space” will be his masterpiece, unburdened by the artistic input of others, his girlfriend (Patricia Arquette) sits next to him, painting the Styrofoam plates that Wood will use to represent flying saucers. Depp is irrepressible, and he’s particularly wonderful at registering bitter disappointment while maintaining Wood’s sunny facade. He shows how this talentless but passionate moviemaker was undaunted by abject humiliation. And the scene where he confesses to Arquette that he likes to dress in women’s clothing is perhaps the tenderest in Burton’s ouevre, which favors doomed, Gothic-tinged romance. For once, he allows one of his heroes to achieve romantic fulfillment — and even persuades the audience that he deserves it. Martin Landau won an Oscar for his gamey and poignant portrayal of the aging, morphine-addicted horror star Bela Lugosi, whom Wood hired when no one else would. They bond over their love of cinema — as we see when the frail Lugosi thrashes around in two feet of frigid water at 4 a.m., pretending to fight with a mechanized octopus that has no motor. By dramatizing Wood’s appreciation of Lugosi’s talent, Burton shows that an inept director may indeed know a thing or two about movie art that escapes the purveyors of “reputable” fare. “Ed Wood” may be hogwash, but I defy you not to be charmed.