Exploring the meaning of “postmodernism” can be a risky business. Conversations beginning with the question, “What is postmodernism?” tend to spin out of control. Still, if we are to believe that the term is more than a buzzword to describe nearly every aspect of our contemporary culture, then we are obliged to offer some sort of definition.
Broadly speaking, postmodernism can be viewed as a reaction against “modernism” in the arts. As such, it is almost paradoxical to be applying the term “postmodern” to any aesthetic of film art coming from Hollywood, simply because Hollywood’s “modernist” movement in the 1950s through the 1970s rarely embraced the ardent modernist rejection of popular art and sentimentality, as well as the modernist devotion to works of startling originality.
Film scholar Roger Hickman has identified three principles of “postmodernism” in the arts that have relevance for the term’s application to film art:1 First, postmodernism abandons the modernist ideal of originality; instead it openly relies on citation and allusion; Second, postmodernism embraces all artistic styles, including the popular arts; this is in contrast to the highbrow tendencies of modernism; and Third, expression and emotional appeal are important goals of art; thus, neo-Romanticism is among the artistic styles embraced by postmodernism. Postmodernist art tends also to look for the humor in a situation, and not to take itself too seriously. Self-contradiction, ambiguity, absurdity, passion—these and all other conditions of the human experience do not have to be “fit” into some tidy order that will help us make sense of things. The rational mind is not the immediate evaluator of a work of art. Art is an experience. And it is the unconscious mind that “processes” that experience and determines for us the value and worth we ascribe to a work of art.
Tim Burton (b. 1958) got his start in film as an animator for Walt Disney Studios. His animated short, Vincent (1982), which paid homage to his film idol Vincent Price, won awards and got the attention of actor Paul Reubens, who hired Burton to direct his first full-length feature film, Pee-wee’s Big Adventure (1985). The surprise box-office success of that film led to Burton’s role as director of Beetle Juice (1988).
The success of yet another quirky film from the young director prompted Warner Bros. to entrust Burton with directing the company’s anticipated summer blockbuster, Batman (1989). Burton did not disappoint. At a remarkably young age, Burton established himself as an auteur, the word coined by French critics in the 1950s for a director whose artistic vision is realized in a film, who is the “author” of a film.
We have already encountered a number of such auteurs: John Ford, Alfred Hitchcock, George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, Clint Eastwood, and now, Tim Burton. And over the last several decades, there has been a steady movement in the industry toward offering greater control to the director. Today, being a director means being an auteur. The phenomenal success of Batman gave Burton carte blanche for his next film project. Burton chose to create a contemporary fairy tale, Edward Scissorhands (1990). Again, the results were spectacular. Collaborating with Burton on this film—as he had on the director’s three previous feature films—was composer Danny Elfman.
Danny Elfman (b. 1953) was well known before he ever composed a film score. He and his brother Richard Elfman were founding members of the Los Angeles-based new wave rock band, Oingo Boingo. (Interestingly, the two started the group in Paris to provide diegetic music for Richard’s directorial debut, Forbidden Zone (1982), which has become something of a cult classic for Elfman fans.) Oingo Boingo gained quite a following in the 1980s, and, as it turns out, Tim Burton was a fan. Tim and Danny struck up a friendship, and the two saw in each other an artistic compatibility. When Burton was asked to direct Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, he invited Elfman to compose the film score.
Elfman was not entirely unprepared. He was a life-long fan of film and film music, and in his own compositions he had written musical scores with parts for as many as 11 or 12 musicians. But this was new musical territory for him, and he recognized he couldn’t do it alone. Elfman hired his friend and guitarist from the band, Steve Bartek, to help him with the music for the film. With the success of Pee- wee’s Big Adventure, Burton and Elfman were both assured continued creative opportunities in Hollywood. (Bartek, too, has continued his work there, principally as an orchestrator.)
Edward Scissorhands was the fifteenth film score composed by Elfman. His tenth had been Batman. As Elfman observes in his commentary for the Warner Bros. DVD release of Edward Scissorhands, he had “survived” Batman. And after that, he began to think, “I guess I’m a film composer; maybe I even knew what I was doing.” That experience and success as a composer, Elfman tells us, allowed him to relax and enjoy composing the score for Edward Scissorhands in a way that he had never experienced before. Even ten years after the making of the film—when Elfman was providing his commentary—he said that, of the nearly forty film scores he had composed (at that time), the score for Edward Scissorhands was still, “perhaps my favorite.” dward Scissorhands is a poster child for postmodernism. A contemporary fairy tale dreamed up by Burton and fleshed out by screenwriter Caroline Thompson, it requires not just a suspension of disbelief, but an acceptance of its absurdity as an essential ingredient in the story. Said Burton in his commentary for the film: “It’s not a new story. It’s Frankenstein. It’s Phantom of the Opera. It’s Hunchback of Notre Dame, King Kong, Creature from the Black Lagoon, and countless fairy tales.” It’s an old story, then, but updated, with a wide range of allusions to earlier film genres and other artistic forms. Among them: Frankenstein, Dracula, Citizen Kane, Leave It to Beaver, Charlie Chaplin, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, Hitchock films, fairy tales, Christian themes and imagery, and Freddy Krueger. Let’s take a look at some of these. The resemblances in some cases are striking. For instance, there’s the silent film, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919/1996). Let’s watch. Cabinet Of Dr. Caligari The figure of the knife-wielding Cesare looks very much the model for Edward Scissorhands, and both figures similarly walk toward the camera in pivotal scenes. Also evident is the influence of the room design on Edward’s upstairs loft.
Cesare approaches, and Edward approaches
And for certain aspects of character, plot points—and pratfalls—consider this clip from Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times (1936). Let’s watch. Charlie Chaplin
And let’s not forget the man with knives for fingers: Freddy Krueger! Compare this view of Edward as he’s coming out of Jim’s house, being told to drop his weapons, with a famous pose from Freddy.
Freddy Kruger in A Nightmare on Elm Street and Edward Scissorhands in Edward Scissorhands.
Given all these obvious allusions, is there anything original about Edward Scissorhands? Emphatically, yes! Burton’s originality, though, resides in the way these allusions are combined. “Leave It to Beaver meets The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari” is an original idea! Says Burton of his approach: “Life is a mix of everything—the good, the bad, the dark, the light, the funny, the sad.” His words describe not only his personal artistic vision; they could well be appropriated and enshrined as a preamble to some sort of a “Postmodernist Credo.” There are two principal musical themes associated with Edward Scissorhands: the “Fairy Tale” theme and the “Heart” theme, and we hear them both in the opening of the film. The Fairy Tale theme permeates the title music (0:31 to 2:45) and could be described as an eerie waltz. Its minor mode suggests darkness and mystery, which is well matched by the images through the title sequence. The inclusion of wordless vocals (from a boy’s choir) adds an ethereal, almost angelic quality.