“Like walking around in a weird, beautiful funhouse.” That’s how Tim Burton described his private viewing of The World of Tim Burton at the exhibition’s opening at London’s Design Museum.
A travelling circus that initially took shape at New York’s Museum of Modern Art in 2009 and has since visited 14 cities in 11 countries, the exhibition now reaches its grand finale in expanded, remixed form in Burton’s adopted hometown. At the press conference, he admitted to feeling somewhat anxious about it. This points to one of the underlying tensions of the exhibition itself – the contrast between laying bare an intensely personal creative process, and Burton’s global megastar status.
The exhibition’s collaboration with the Design Museum has enabled its re-framing as an exploration of Burton’s “design practice” (in curator Maria McClintock’s words). It traces the complex path from Burton’s initial sketches to their realisation on screen.
In this respect, the exhibition is successful. Visitors get a sense of the holistic development of Burton’s ideas from preliminary drawings to their realisation by puppet-makers and set and costume designers. Unrealised film projects and personal artworks are also included. This provides a unique insight into the director’s creative process.
The work itself, moreover, is joyous – a riot of colour and fizzing line. The Burton that emerges is restlessly inventive. We see not only his prolific sketches in pen and ink and watercolour but also his experiments across media with collage, pastels, oils, acrylics on velvet, home movies, photography, children’s picture books and comic verse.
Some of the most thrilling items are the most personal – teen fan art, scribbles on table napkins, university lecture notes. These offer an impression of intimacy, of unadulterated creativity bubbling up from some hidden wellspring of the subconscious. The staging of the exhibition enhances this impression. Skewed doorways and chequerboard floors suggest that the art is spilling out of the frame into the space of the gallery, evoking the “funhouse” feel that Burton commented on.
The exhibition is invested in the notion of Burton as auteur, supported by a loyal team of creatives, many of whom are showcased here. One highlight is rows of Jack Skellington heads with different facial expressions, devised by stop-motion animators Mackinnon and Saunders for The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993). Elsewhere, there is a genuine frisson in seeing Bob Ringwood and Mary Vogt’s iconic costume for Catwoman in Batman Returns (1992), now so fragile that it can only be laid flat, and looking uncannily like shed skin.
The indisputable star among Burton’s collaborators, however, is costume designer Colleen Atwood. Her spectacular ensembles for Edward Scissorhands (1990), Mars Attacks! (1996), Sleepy Hollow (1999), Alice in Wonderland (2010) and Wednesday (2022) dominate the central room of the exhibition. Someone please give her a show of her own.
Missed opportunities
Where the exhibition is less successful is in its attempts to place Burton in a wider cultural framework. Burton’s influences are covered patchily and explained poorly. Vincent Price is conflated with Hammer Horror (he never made a film with Hammer Studios) and the theoretical concept of the carnivalesque is misunderstood.
A more thorough exploration of the horror traditions on which Burton draws – particularly German expressionism and Roger Corman’s Edgar Allan Poe adaptations – would have been welcome. The focus on Burton’s drawings also begs closer attention to the illustrative traditions he is indebted to, from Ralph Steadman to Charles Addams and Edward Gorey. To neglect this is to diminish Burton’s skill as an artist who consciously reworks the American gothic tradition into a distinctive new form.
The final room, “Burtonesque”, has the potential to be the most interesting. It explores the way that Burton’s aesthetic has become distinctive enough to be recognisable in the work of other artists.
Ultimately, however, it shies away from asking searching questions about stylistic transferability and influence. Rather, it looks at Burton’s collaborations with artists in other media, whether fashion designer Alexander McQueen, photographer Tim Walker, or rock band The Killers.
These are interesting in their own right but crucially, Burton is still involved in this process. The traditional exit through the gift shop reveals another side to Burton, in which his highly recognisable aesthetic has lent itself to merchandise with varying degrees of connection to the original source. The director has been vocal about the exploitation of his work by AI. But is this, in today’s culture, the logical end-point of the “Burtonesque”?
The exhibition avoids any kind of investigation of the Burton brand, or even of Burton’s influence on a new generation of creators. In doing so, it misses what is one of the most fascinating paradoxes about Burton: that an artist who is so preoccupied with the figure of the outsider has been so widely embraced, with such immense commercial success.
Burton’s work raises serious questions about the role and popularity of gothic imagery in 21st-century culture, but this exhibition is content to stick with the funhouse thrills.
The World of Tim Burton is on at the Design Museum, London, until April 21 2025.
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Catherine Spooner has previously received funding from the Arts and Humanities Research Council for a related project.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
