It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment I fell out of love with Tim Burton’s Dark Shadows. Johnny Depp, of course, makes an excellent Barnabas Collins, the elegant, dandyish, fiercely house-proud 18th century vampire who, after being buried alive for 200 years, returns to his family home, circa 1972. And Burton luxuriates in the period details—the bean bag chairs, the lava lamps, the leisure suits, the inanely chirpy music of the day (“I’m on the Top of the World” et al). There is a fabulous bit where Barnabas lays his head down on a piano in despair, but rather than a gothic organ chord befitting a vampire of his status sounding. . . a tinny synthesizer beat plays instead.
It’s perfect.
But after a while, the film overstays its welcome. Burton, as is so often the case, has created this fabulous, almost fetishistically detailed world and doesn’t know what to do with it. He has a gift for visuals, mood, mimesis—but not necessarily character and story.
After a brief prologue where we learn of Barnabas’s fate—he had the misfortune of not returning the affections of a powerful witch (Eva Green), who killed his dearly beloved and turned him into a vampire—the film starts with that trusty...

