The paintings in Big Eyes remind one of the most insipid examples of a summer boardwalk art show. Bulging-eyed lonesome-looking urchins, pretty much in cookie cutter fashion, dominate each canvas to the point where the rest of the painting seems to have disappeared. In many ways, a miscast Christopher Waltz, normally a very fine actor, gives forth an equally bulging, one-note performance. He plays Walter Keane, who in San Francisco in the 1950s, began bamboozling both the art buying public and his own wife, Margaret (Amy Adams), the actual artist behind the paintings.
Pretending to be the actual artist, Walter shucks and jives his way to notoriety and a large financial gain. A natural salesman, he is glib and patronizing to the point of inanity. Naturally, a serious art dealer (an amusingly dour Jason Schwartman) and critic (Terence Stamp channeling John Simon) see right through him, and eventually, contribute to his downfall. It takes Margaret nearly the length of the film to finally get the gumption to make a move and resist. Her reticence is, of course, a product of the Mad Men-era times. Relegated to second-class citizens, women endured everyday punishment as much as the big one depicted here.
When approached as a woman’s story of self-actualization and liberation, Big Eyes works fine. Amy Adams conveys perfectly the terrible dilemma of a woman whose very deepest and
most personal work was doubly violated. Her intellectual and creative property was denied her for the mere “crime” of being a woman and for pure financial gain. Although she reaped the outward rewards of wealth, Adams allows us to identify with just how
hollow the expensive house and other luxuries make Margaret feel. Scenes where she must lie to her daughter brings her to tears.
As long as Big Eyes stays focused on Adams, it moves along just fine. The problem is the film doesn’t avoid overexposing us to Waltz’s schtick. We can’t help but wonder how a guy this lame ever managed to not be stripped of credibility long before his wife turns on him. Burton, usually famous for visual extravagance both good and bad, actually tones down production design elements this time. Instead his penchant for excess produces a breezily ludicrous cartoon-character who very nearly ruins the film.