Burton’s Big Eyes, Anderson’s Inherent Vice middling fare

There are redeeming features in both these new releases, but they barely compare with the best work of the two directors.

Amy Adams in Tim Burton’s vivid film Big Eyes.

Two middling films from two towering American auteurs this week. Tim Burton’s Big Eyes (M, Roadshow, 101min, $39.95) is not a paean to his former belle, Helena Bonham Carter, but another effort exploring mediocre or just plain bad artists. Margaret Keane was an artist a level or three above film director Ed Woodand her artworks featuring waifish children with oversized eyes became a cultural and commercial phenomenon in the 1960s and 70s.

Keane, played beautifully by Amy Adams, herself of the brilliantly broad eyes, was not the person the public knew, though. Her second husband, Walter (Christoph Waltz), swept up the impressionable single mum when she arrived in San Francisco (apparently the US has issued an edict that all films must now be shot in San Fran) and, amid her confusion and with his sleight of hand, the self-promoter claimed credit for the paintings.

He preyed on her naivete in claiming credit for the work, a con and discussion that becomes Burton’s major concern.

It is some relief to have Burton see the light, so to speak, in a period and setting that pops from the screen with high, bright colours conjured wonderfully by Bruno Delbonnel. And Burton’s dramatisation of the tale is vivid, with its jazz vignettes, pop art allusions and his usual respect for artists, no matter how bad (and I liked Keane’s mid-film foray into John Bracks territory). Burton clearly comes down on Margaret’s side, as you sort of knew by Waltz’s casting. Serene as Adams is, her character’s passiveness and Waltz’s broad kitsch keep the film from flying. Ultimately, it doesn’t become as meaningful as Burton might have hoped but it is enjoyable — beginning sprightly and finishing in a whirl.

Paul Thomas Anderson’s Inherent Vice (MA15+, Warner, 142min, $39.95) is one big, fantastic, mad flurry. It is said Thomas Pynchon’s novels are unfilmmable; I’m no unabashed fan of Anderson but he’s as good a pick as any to attempt an unfilmmable film.

He does a rather good job here, although don’t come looking for coherence. That’s not Pynchon. This whacked-out crime caper follows Doc Sportello (a suitably sullied Joaquin Phoenix), a Californian PI of sorts, as he aims to get to the bottom of a confusing dilemma, perhaps crime. This is “pot picaresque”, where destination doesn’t matter so much and the fun is in the journey.

Anderson revels in them and, perfect as Phoenix is in the role, the film’s delights are in the little things: Pynchon’s turns of phrase, the keen period details and tight little performances that pop in and out. Josh Brolin’s LAPD detective Bigfoot is the most substantial but others are just as good or amusing. Katherine Waterston will build a career on her performance as Doc’s former girlfriend and Martin Short delivers a cameo as a dentist. DVD Letterbox didn’t know what this malarky was on about half the time but golly it was diverting.

Twitter:@michaebodey

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