In Edward Scissorhands (1990), writer and director Tim Burton manages to reduce the world to one neighborhood: the suburban sameness of Lutz, Florida. The houses on the streets are nearly identical blocks painted in light shades of yellows, blues, and rosy pinks. But at the end of the neighborhood, a startling peak towers above the storybook town: a gothic manor with its grays and blacks and browns—the aesthetic foil to the almost playful pastels of the suburb.
But setting is not the only aesthetic foil. Beyond the contrast in housing is the contrast in humanity. The inhabitants of Lutz are similar to their matching houses: the same people in different-colored clothing. These cookie-cutter housewives in their gaudy garb abide seemingly uninterested by the castle on the hill, consumed only with gossip and appearances.
Everything changes when Peg (Dianne Wiest)—the neighborhood Avon representative and secret hero of the film—decides to visit the manor and attempt to sell her wares. She stumbles upon a stunning topiary garden, a stark contrast from the dilapidated interior of the manor. There, inside its disintegrating halls, Peg discovers a disheveled young man named Edward (Johnny Depp)—a macabre creation with a disarray of shears, clippers, and knives for hands.
We learn Edward’s origin through a series of tragic flashbacks: a lone inventor (Vincent Price) frankensteins Edward from a hodge-podge of parts but dies before he finishes his creation.
“Where are your parents? Your mother? Your father?” Peg inquires.
Edward responds, “He didn’t wake up.”
Thus, kindhearted Peg decides to bring Edward home to live with her family: husband Bill (Alan Arkin), son Kevin (Robert Olivieri), and daughter Kim (Winona Ryder), by whose beauty Edward is immediately entranced. But conflict rouses: the nosy housewives, led by flirtatious Joyce (Kathy Baker), hound Peg until she shares with them her mysterious tenant.
From this point, Edward learns to live in a suburban world with scissors for hands, resulting in a variety of humorous and often frustrating events, such as buttering toast at the dinner table or learning about social security.
The point of Edward Scissorhands is, undoubtedly, to satirize suburban life—the success of which is contested by critics and casual moviegoers alike. Roger Ebert, for example, dislikes the film for its failure to set Edward apart from the other characters through normalcy. And indeed, Edward is similar to the residents of Lutz in that he is odd—in dress, physical attributes, and behavior.
Regardless of the film’s success in satire, one thing Burton executes brilliantly is ambivalence: specifically, the blending of the spooky and the whimsical. The macabre and the magic of Christmas are combined in the film, the recipe to which Burton would perfect three years later in The Nightmare Before Christmas. The pastel frivolity of Lutz clashes with the gothic origins of Edward, which Burton brilliantly highlights with the casting of Vincent Price—a champion of the macabre—as Edward’s inventor.
Another interesting instance of ambivalence occurs in Burton’s depiction of the token Christian resident of Lutz—Esmeralda (O-Lan Jones)—a devout Catholic, who is (at first) the only decrier of Edward’s arrival. Though the other residents of Lutz are spun as superficial busybodies, they are not hung out to dry as crazed fanatics. This negative depiction is visual: Esmeralda’s home is the only Lutz home that is not bright and pastel-toned. Instead, the walls are crimson, and the only lighting is provided by prayer candles. Esmeralda herself never smiles throughout the film, occupying her time with denouncing demonic powers and playing somber melodies on her organ (at Christmas, an unsettling rendition of “We Three Kings”) rather than gossip. Even the Christmas season does little to inspire joy in Esmeralda, an intriguing contrast with the traditional Christian significance of the holiday season. From this portrayal, coupled with Edward’s creation at the hands of a man, a minor theme emerges: the replacement of God with scientific advancement.
Ultimately, the film’s appeal is broad. The devout followers of Burton will doubtless flock to the film’s defense. Gothic literature readers (myself included) will find delight in the prevalent gothic tropes—castles, creatures, and Vincent Price. Most Disney patrons should catch the overt parallels to Beauty & the Beast. And Christmas lovers and Halloween lovers can (for once) find common ground—on the pastel streets of Lutz at the foot of a gothic manor. The lovability of Edward Scissorhands is in its quirks—the innocence and wide-eyed wonder of a handicapped monster, and the ambivalence of darkness and light in a satirical gothic fairytale as old as time.