Mr. Burton

Marc Evans’s film is a lovely thing.

It’s a bittersweet story, foreshadowed by his descent into alcoholism, yet the film manages to retain a purity of heart that will likely move any Burton fan.

Jones certainly shows Mr Burton’s sad and dignified loneliness.

The film is so dewy-eyed about the process that made him a star, it overlooks the more devilish bits of the bargain. In truth all biopics ought to have some aspects of a cautionary tale: there but for the grace of God go we.

[Burton] never thought acting was a manly profession, and seemed to be involved in a tug-of-war against himself, tangled up by his roots. To have half explored these themes, as Evans’ film does, means we’re left wanting more, but there’s a pleasing ache to the experience as a platonic love story.

It’s a pity, then, that this sluggishly paced film, which leans heavily on a fussy, twinkling piano score, is so meandering and listless.