The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy and Other Stories

Tim Burton

Someone needs to explain this to me and fast, ‘cause I don't get it: how is it that bad poetry (and yes, folks, this is truly bad) and art that looks like a second-rate Edward Gorey ripoff (Burton is not the illustrator that he is the sculptor and animator) can be so insanely funny? I am completely at a loss for why I liked this anywhere near as much as I did.

Let's face it, if you squint right while watching The Nightmare Before Christmas, it's obvious even in Burton's finest work that the specter of Edward Gorey looms large over Burton's material; it has never been more obvious than it is here. Many of his characters even seem to have the same basic brushstrokes Gorey used in his illustrations. Which is not to say they're bad; they just look like Edward Gorey work. Not even as blurred as Bacon's famous study of Pope Pius.

And the verse? Absolute doggerel. Even conceding the idea that Burton is using Gerard Manley Hopkins-esque sprung rhythm (which he's not, because sprung rhythm does, at least, HAVE a rhythm), the implementation is so amateurish that it's impossible despite the rhymes to call this anything resembling poetry.

but good living Christ on a crutch, is this book funny. Morbid, twisted, insane, gut-churning (despite the pretty cartoons, folks, this is not one to buy for the kiddies; flip through the title story for a good example of why), and full of laughs. One almost gets the idea Burton was going for a place as the anti-Dr. Seuss. Little vignettes about characters who fade in and out like Dish Network reception in a typhoon, popping up unexpectedly here and there and doing exactly what you were hoping they wouldn't.

If you are at all a fan of Tim Burton, this is a must-read. If you're not, you're probably going to notice the faults and not find what lies beneath them.