Tim Burton
Ed Wood

Robocop! We had nicknamed him that for those fluid and coordinated movements; his limbs like old rusty gears thrown into a well of tar and piss, dragged carelessly toward the sunlight, dried on a carpet of scorching sand before being attached to the torso. The total denial of sports. Yet, when the gym door opened, that mass of ligaments and bones was already there running, ready for training, soaked in sweat. And if back then I joined the others in mocking him, contributing to making those hours almost unbearably tedious for him, now, reflecting on those faded times, the perspective changes angle. Because "Robo" put in a passion and energy that now, as I see it again among the grayish folds of my head, seems not only moving but heroic; certainly worthy of respect and admiration because in his place all of us, the jerks who laughed at him, wouldn't have lasted more than a week.

Edward has the lightness of youth in his agile walk, and behind the Ray-Bans are eyes that see a future made of red carpets, posters, and statuettes. In his mind as an emerging director, there are no limits being driven by the false and blind awareness of having a unique talent for the seventh art and inevitably having to become a recognized star.

Burton entertains for long stretches, but it would be completely fallacious to consider the work a simple comedy that plays on the protagonist's blatant lack of talent and inability to see his own flaws. The film, on the contrary, convinces because it knows how to be simultaneously moving; it indeed manages to foreground the strength, passion, and boundless devotion that Wood feels for his craft: we thus find ourselves cheering unconditionally in the curve for his hideous films, fervently hoping for a general dumbing-down of the audience. Parallel to the main track, Burton smoothly outlines the cynical and cold side of the movie capital, which attempts to rid itself of the useless with a sharp and ungrateful cut. Hollywood is thus not only a formidable mountain to conquer but also an epic battle to try to resist the siege of the jackals who want to oust you.

And it is in this way, between the vigorous shoving of one trying to get in and the shaky foot brakes of another who doesn't want to leave, that the handsome protagonist encounters the old and decrepit horror star Bela Lugosi, now close to his grave.

The work, shot in black and white, alternates the lively and fast rhythm of Ed's hopes, which are invariably disappointed, with the slow but inexorable decline of the once-great actor consumed by debts, alcohol, and drugs. Burton sews a moving and loyal friendship between these extremes, leading the two to help each other to stay attached to their shared dream/nightmare: Hollywood.

It's highly probable that many young people have never even heard of this gem because if you mention Burton to them, a big fish, chocolate, a bat, a razor, sharp scissors, a gloomy Christmas, etc., will take shape; certainly not a man in a woman's sweater and bra. Even without the special effects and those plots capable of exalting the visionary genius of this disheveled contemporary director, "Ed Wood" remains a film of great craftsmanship. I undoubtedly place it at the end of the steep tip of his filmography's pyramid not only for Martin Landau's gigantic performance but for those satisfying bittersweet, almost poetic edges that best describe the particularly ephemeral, bastard, and ungrateful world of cinema with an extraordinary tenderness and tact.

I like to regard this film as a splendid gift to the unfortunate protagonist, (even judged in 1980 as the worst director of all time), created specifically to give him the fame he pursued in vain and with all his being throughout his life.