Directed by: Tim Burton
Cast: Freddie Highmore, Johnny Depp, Jordan Fry, Julia Winter, Philip Wiegratz, Helena Bonham Carter, Noah Tyler, Deep Roy
Runtime: 115 min.
Rating: PG
Trailer

The first third of Tim Burton’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is a sublime experience—one of the best stretches of film I experienced in 2005. The following two-thirds, however, are significantly worse and much less enjoyable. There are two reasons for this: geography and reality.

From the first scene of the film until the arrival of Willy Wonka, and the film’s entrance into his factory, Burton succeeds in establishing and maintaining the spatial relationships between key areas and places.

The film’s title sequence, which shows a bar of chocolate being manufactured in Wonka’s factory, is a good example. As the bar travels along its route from pouring machine to shaping machine to packing machine to a big, red Wonka distribution truck, Burton shows not only each stop on the journey, but also the connections between them; conveyor belts, weird “suckers” and strange “spitters” allow the viewer to see cause, effect, and process. The result is a sequence that lays out a whole picture of chocolate bar creation at the Wonka factory, not just a string of fragments. In other words, Burton draws us a map—where roads are more important than the destinations to which they lead.

This theme of visual geography figures prominently in the entire beginning of the film. As established by Burton, the chocolate factory becomes not only the chocolate center of the town that surrounds it, but its physical center as well; the factory rests atop a hill and dominates nearly every view that Burton gives us. It’s even visible from Charlie’s home, which is on the outskirts of town. Therefore, the various places in which the early story of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory takes place are linked not only to the factory, but also through the factory; their physical distance from each other can be measured by their visual distance from the factory.

In effect, what Burton succeeds in doing is painting a portrait—of a city. He captures the proportions that make each one unique. Every city has factories, homes and shops, just like every face has eyes, lips, a nose, and ears, but each city and face is unique because the layout of these common pieces is always slightly different.

However, once the film enters the factory, these proportions cease to exist. Rooms become only rooms; the vastness of Wonka’s factory remains unseen and only implied. The links between the individual sets are not shown, and no central room or object exists to help orientate the viewer. Burton gives the viewer Wonka, but he’s a poor guide, and soon enough the geography of the factory breaks down and is replaced by the wackiness and randomness of Wonka’s spiraling, glass elevator. As a result, the factory never becomes a living, captivating place; the viewer is allowed to see, but not to enter.

The second reason for the breakdown of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is the invasion of reality into the fantastic world of the story. In the beginning, the film takes place in an unreal city—a meld of Dickensian, industrializing London and Tim Burton’s distinct visual style. And the chocolate factory exists nowhere but in the mind of the viewer. But, soon enough, the real world—our world—creeps in. First, it comes innocently and in a more or less vague way; the winners of the golden tickets hail from real countries. Then, the actual language of the film changes as the winners—children—take over the narrative. Finally, Burton gives in and, much to his film’s discredit, starts laying out pop culture reference after pop culture reference. A world in which an annoying, little girl can turn into a blueberry is perfectly alright; but only when that world doesn’t know 2001: A Space Odyssey and Kiss. Fantastic events cannot happen in non-fantastic worlds without an explanation. By indulging his own tastes and fancies, Burton undermines his film. In other words: Bilbo Baggins does not drink Pepsi.

The extent to which Charlie and the Chocolate Factory glamorizes poverty and idolizes cold, calculating capitalism is appalling.

Charlie, whose proletarian father works long hours for small wages, should not cavort with capitalist swine like Willy Wonka. Not only does Wonka placate the bourgeoisie with his sweet-tasting chocolate, but the industrialist fired Charlie’s grandfather from his factory due to his own twisted greed.

By showing a Charlie content in his poverty, director Tim Burton becomes a tool of the capitalist. Art must show class struggle. A true film would show Charlie’s disgust with Wonka and Wonka’s chocolate, and would document Charlie’s efforts to educate and rally his friends into a worker-collective. A proud, proletarian Charlie would storm the factory with his comrades—no golden ticket necessary! Along with his German and American comrades, Charlie would then lead a world revolution to depose Wonkas everywhere.

Equally sickening is Burton’s propagandistic portrayal of the evil Wonka. He who controls the chocolate distribution and charges outlandish prices is no hero! What good is chocolate for the dumb bourgeoisie and evil capitalists if we workers have no bread? He who forces our comrades, the Oompa Loompas, to labour unjust hours for unjust prices is no friend! We are all slaves to Wonka’s money-machine. And the the golden ticket scheme is merely a way to boost Wonka chocolate sales; it is no contest!

When I look at the story of Charlie and the chocolate factory I see a vehicle for social change and revolution. Tim Burton’s twisting of this story of worker-struggle is a ploy; Tim Burton is a traitor and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is the chocolate of the masses!

Pacze Moj
© Cinephile Magazine, 2006

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