Directed by: Tim Burton
There are probably a few things one should consider when one fucks around with someone whose hands are made of scissors. The first and most important issue is that THE DUDE’S HANDS ARE MADE OF SCISSORS. The other things are negligible in light of this fact, actually. If one’s precautions aren’t on full alert by now, nothing more can be said or done that could improve one’s survival odds.
It might also do some good to think through a decision to invite a dude whose scissors are hands into your house to sleep in your beautiful teenage daughter’s waterbed a little more carefully. This is especially true if there is a hide-a-bed (and ample space, booze) in the basement. If you need to raise a 20 year-old manchild that looks like a manic-depressive serial killer–and who wouldn’t–segregating him from your children for at least a week is probably the most practical idea. Dude’s gotta acclimate first.
Should a guy with scissors for hands be allowed to love? Gosh, I don’t know. Probably. Should a teenage girl start swooning over him within a week of his arrival, especially after her first meeting with him, where he is laying nervously in her bed, watching her undress while his scissors splay toward the ceiling? Meh, just laugh it off at a family reunion later or something. But it’s completely out of the question to have him carve a gigantic–no, COLOSSAL–block of ice into a swan in the middle of warm summer night. That’s where I draw the line, movie. Where did the ice come from? Where did he get that giant ladder? How can Winona Ryder be the only one who sees him going to town on this thing and making all kinds of noise? What would her pent up melodrama look like without an epic soundtrack and slo-mo camera present? Why are the neighbors such catty bitches? Why has the dilapidated evil mansion on the hill not been turned over to the city or a groundskeeper or meth addicts? I demand answers, dammit!
ThomFiles 