Movie review: Big Fish

Tim Burton's Big Fish opens with a shot of a (big) CGI catfish. It's an effective model, but the skin is rubbery and smooth and clean—I didn't get the feeling that this ancient fish had ever lurked beneath a pier, nosed through the muck, been infested with parasites. Ever lived. And that's, really, my problem with the movie in a nutshell: it purports to show us tall tales of Americana, but they have no rough edges, no tarnish, no dust, no peeling paint, no splinters. They're not alive. Burton cast British prettyboy Ewan McGregor, of all people, as the prototypical American wanderer and spinner of tales. How is he grizzled? He's not, that's how.

I understand that part of the point was showing us the rose-colored glasses we use to look at the past, but in my experience tall tales revel in the slime and the scars on the one that got away, and the hook you jabbed into your thumb while trying to catch it; Big Fish had none of that. I really wanted to like it, and there were aspects I was quite impressed with, but it kept pointing at things and calling them wondrous without actually being wondrous.

(I also had trouble feeling any sympathy for Billy Crudup, whose character can be summed up thusly: "Dad, I know you're dying of cancer, but stop telling these stories that bring you so much comfort!" I couldn't ever come around to liking him.)