Tim Burton's Edward Scissorhands: The Mark of Artistic Integrity

By Juree Sondker (March 22, 1999)

At first glance, Tim Burton's Edward Scissorhands does seem to comply with Desson Howe's review of the film as a "gothic-goofy" version of that perennial tale "of the noble hearted outsider getting persecuted by society"; Dowe claims that this is the oldest and most touching "story in the book", thereby suggesting its traditional and formulaic structure.¹ However, as mentioned in my previous study of The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993), Burton's position within the horror genre is an ambivalent one. Edward Scissorhands (1990) is undoubtedly an attempt at humanizing the monster figure and thus deviating from traditional and formulaic horror, yet the story persists in the process of assimilation and extrication of the monster by normative society. Even the rendering of Edward's 'humanity' becomes ambivalent in light of his attempts to mirror what the community desires and expects of him; while Edward's intitial presence introduces novelty with the creation of sculptures and hairstyles that connote the power in difference, he progressively becomes the menace to society that the community calls upon as a scapegoat for their own perverse pleasures. Just as Edward seemed to mirror the gentility and kindness of his surrogate father (Vincent Price) and mother (Diane Wiest), he eventually fulfills Jim's bitter prophecy about his role within the community: "You can't touch anything without destroying it". Although Burton's characterization of the monster figure is rife with ambiguity, his 'monsters' always seem to have a more integral connection to the natural order than their human counterparts. As Harry Benshoff notes that The Nightmare Before Christmas tells the tale of "monsters ... who learn to celebrate their place within the natural order,"² perhaps it is Edward Scissorhands who is most engaged in the discourse of the natural order as he ultimately learns to process the loss of love as the death or winter (in his creation of snow), that must inevitably precede spring (in the sculptures made of leaves) in order to give it meaning and purpose. It is this engagement with the natural order of the seasons that we must look to in order to see Edward's fate as more than a "trumped up scenario to push {Edward} into a martyr role"³; for Edward ultimately reassumes his role of creator and discards his scapegoat role of destroyer, thereby living in a safe utopia. However, this utopia is only found through extrication, and consequently remains one in which he is denied human contact and a place within normative society.

It is crucial to examine Edward's complex role as both creation and creator, in which the ambivalence of his characterization is most prevalent; on first inspection, Edward could appear to be merely a silent-clown version of monstrosity, in which we are supposed to feel sympathy and empathy for his apparent vulnerability. This is not to suggest that this is not an Integral part of Edward's depiction, but rather that it can overshadow the incredibly powerful figure that Edward's particular brand of monstrosity connotes to this homogenized society- the monstrous figure of the artist. As Edward demonstrates his creative genius through sculptures made of greenery and hairstyles that make each woman (or dog) took like a walking work of art, he establishes himself as transcending his submissive role of creation and takes on the empowering realm of creator. Edward's role as an artist is significantly tied to the sexual desire he provokes in the women of this community; it is Edward's power in difference that makes him so desirable, in direct opposition to the women's husbands who exist in a type of uncanny synchronicity, going to and from work at the same time in the same cars on the same roads. It is not only Edward's phallic blades and sado-masochistic leather apparel that make him overtly sexual, it is his power to endow the women with their own distinction from each other in their unique and fantastic hairstyles. As Linda Williams claims, "it is a truism of the horror genre that sexual interest resides most often in the monster and not the bland ostensible heroes..who often prove powerless at the crucial moment"^4;; this statement undoubtedly rings true in the final confrontation between Jim and Edward, where the monster's potency (the blades) prevails over the normative male's impotency (the lack of blades). Thus, Edward is not simply a humanized monster who results in what Roger Ebert deemed a "caricature,"^5; but rather a complex rendering of the creator/creation myth that pervades the horror genre. To some degree, Edward transcends his scripted role of creation and becomes the creator of difference, although it is directly compliant with what the society desires from him for their own deviant pleasures.

The monstrous figure of Edward Scissorhands seems to comply with Waller's classification of the type of monster we are encouraged to feel sympathy for: "Frankenstein, the Wolf Man, King Kong, or The Mummy('s) alienation was usually tied to society's rejection of their impulse to love, and which was presented in the context of their clearly inappropriate expressions of that impulse."^6; This impulse proved true not only of Edward impulse to heterosexually love, but more importantly to love as a member of the family and community. Rather than looking to the character of Kim (Winona Ryder) to examine the "flash of sympathetic identification" between the woman and monster, the mothering Peg (Diane Wiest) figures much more significantly. Indeed, there is more than a 'flash' of recognition between Edward and Peg and more of a constant and almost unrelenting identification between the two not only as the surrogate mother and son, but as two individuals clearly marked with difference. Interestingly, it is Peg's role as a working mother that most demarcates her difference-she, like Edward, is different because of their more active role within with society (production and consumption). Ironically, Peg is an Avon Lady which lends to her ambivalence in accepting the difference of herself and others so readily, yet wholeheartedly buying into the capitalistic Avon's standard of beauty. The most significant aspect of Peg's difference is her unrelenting acceptance of Edward as one of her own, establishing her character as undeniably outside the realm of the petty neighborhood women who would have initially turned their backs to Edward (as they do ultimately) in his obvious difference. While it is inferred that Peg is 'Other' to the circle of neighborhood women because f her status as a working woman, it is Edward's difference that causes the neighborhood women to befriend her, so that they might engage in the spectacle.

Just as Peg's role of a working woman demarcates her as 'Other', so does her overwhelming mothering instinct; Peg's drive to mother and nurture above all else is demonstrated in her unrelenting devotion to Edward, to the point of literally subjecting the entire family to being ostracized from the community. There does not appear to be a recognition of Edward's overt sexuality in this relationship, but the acknowledgment that Edward has power and an artistic gift in his difference. However, this is not true of the neighboring women who achieve orgiastic responses from the movement of Edward's blades through their hair; it is when Edward rejects Joyce's (Kathy Baker) sexual advances that the community of women turn against Edward, claiming that he (as the prototypical monster) has violated Joyce. When Joyce makes sexual overtures to Edward, he is in a hair styling chair that distinctly resembles the one on which he was conceived by the scientist, and is mirrored by Joyce who is wearing a black leather undergarment. Thus, Edward must reject the submissive role of becoming the creation again, and having his difference taken from him in Joyce's act of mirroring if he does not wish to assimilate completely; as Harry Benshoff notes, Edward's leather wearing suggests the possibility of gayness in the figure of the monster queer (p.266), and in addition his outfit clearly connotes a type of blackness-two of the most threatening and distinguishing marks of difference in a town such as this one. This quality of blackness that Edward has clearly suggests the camaraderie that exists between Edward and the black policeman who tells him, "Don't keep me up all night worrying about you. Watch yourself." Like Peg's character the black policeman takes a mothering tone with Edward as if watching out for one of his own.

While Edward does refuse the traditional monstrous role as merely creation in the face of Joyce's attempt to place him back in the chair, he still is only allowed to exist in compliance with this repressed society's desires. When the community desires the novelty of Edward's creations and difference, he is a shining star, yet when he refuses to be domesticated completely at the hands of these women he is called on to act as a scapegoat (as the menace to society) for their own deviant desires, and thus must be extricated. Although Burton's ending has been criticized for being traditionally 'Hollywood' in the fatal meeting of the villain and hero, Edward, in all his ambiguities, becomes more than just a martyr. He becomes a permanent part of the life process by creating the snow that gives the town winter, and consequently the possibility of a meaningful spring. Perhaps as character of Kim frames the story by telling it to her grandchild, she has learned from both Edward and her mother, the power that ties in creating and nurturing life.