If you were alive and paying attention in the early 2000s, chances are you remember Tim Burton’s Big Fish. Or maybe you don’t. That’s kind of the problem. Here we are, over twenty years later, and Big Fish remains a cinematic anomaly—loved by those who saw it but often forgotten in broader conversations about Burton’s filmography. How did one of the director’s most ambitious, heartfelt, and visually stunning films fade into relative obscurity? And why does it deserve to be remembered as his second-best film, right behind Ed Wood? Let’s dive into this weird, wonderful, and sadly overlooked masterpiece to figure out just what the fuck happened to Big Fish.

Released in 2003, Big Fish hit theaters when Tim Burton’s career was at a crossroads. He was still riding high from his ‘90s dominance—where he cranked out Edward Scissorhands, Batman Returns, and Ed Wood—but the 2001 Planet of the Apes remake had left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. Burton needed to prove he still had the magic touch, and Big Fish was supposed to be that comeback. It was a fantasy-tinged drama about a dying father (Albert Finney/Ewan McGregor) and his estranged son (Billy Crudup), wrestling with the blurred line between truth and fiction in a life full of tall tales.

On paper, this was a dream project. Based on Daniel Wallace’s 1998 novel of the same name, Big Fish had all the elements of a Tim Burton classic—whimsical visuals, offbeat characters, a dreamy, melancholic atmosphere—but with an emotional depth rarely seen in his work. Unlike the gothic weirdness of his earlier films, Big Fish had a warm, golden glow. It was sentimental but never saccharine, fantastical but deeply human. It was Burton’s most personal film to date, inspired by his complicated relationship with his own father, and it resonated in ways his other movies hadn’t.

When Big Fish premiered, critics ate it up. Roger Ebert called it “a delight for the eyes, the heart, and the imagination.” It was nominated for a Golden Globe (Best Picture – Musical or Comedy) and an Academy Award (Best Original Score), and it even found its way onto some critics’ best-of-the-year lists.

But audiences? They were a bit more hesitant. The movie made a respectable—but not earth-shattering—$122 million worldwide on a $70 million budget. Not a flop, but not the kind of hit that guarantees cultural longevity. It came out in late December, right in the middle of the Return of the King juggernaut, and against competition like Cold Mountain, Lost in Translation, and Mystic River, Big Fish struggled to make a lasting impact.

So why didn’t Big Fish achieve the pop culture status of Edward Scissorhands or Beetlejuice? The answer is complicated, but here’s some key factors. While Big Fish had the director’s signature flair, it lacked the macabre, gothic sensibilities that defined his biggest hits. There were no pale, brooding protagonists or eerie German Expressionist-inspired sets. For fans who expected something like Sleepy Hollow or Batman, this softer, more emotional Burton film might have felt out of place.

What is Big Fish exactly? A fantasy? A drama? A father-son story? A road movie? The marketing struggled to define it, which hurt its ability to find a core audience. People who wanted a fantasy epic found it too sentimental, and those looking for a straightforward drama might have been thrown off by its whimsical detours.

Many of Burton’s films gain their staying power from dedicated cult audiences. Beetlejuice, The Nightmare Before Christmas, and Edward Scissorhands all had merchandise, Hot Topic-fueled fandoms, and annual Halloween revivals to keep them in the public consciousness. Big Fish didn’t lend itself to that kind of branding, so it never had the same longevity in pop culture.

In 2013, Big Fish was adapted into a Broadway musical. You didn’t see it? Neither did most people. The stage version flopped, closing after just three months. While some musicals can breathe new life into their source material (Heathers, Beetlejuice), this one failed to reignite interest in the film.

Despite its lukewarm box office run and relative lack of cultural staying power, Big Fish is, without a doubt, Tim Burton’s second-best film. Unlike his usual outsider-focused narratives, Big Fish is about something deeply universal: the struggle to understand our parents, the way stories shape our memories, and the fear of becoming them. It’s introspective in a way Burton’s films rarely are. Albert Finney and Ewan McGregor bring Edward Bloom to life with equal parts charm and heartbreak. Billy Crudup, Jessica Lange, and Helena Bonham Carter all deliver standout performances, making this one of Burton’s best-acted films. From the giant Karl the Giant to the dreamy town of Spectre, every frame of Big Fish is packed with gorgeous, fairy-tale imagery. It’s Burton at his most colorful and visually inventive.

That ending. If you’ve seen Big Fish, you know what I’m talking about. The final sequence, where Will finally embraces his father’s stories and sends him off with a fantastical farewell, is one of the most touching moments in Burton’s career. It’s a gut-punch that stays with you long after the credits roll.

While Ed Wood remains Burton’s best film (for its sheer love of filmmaking and misfits), Big Fish feels like its emotional counterpoint. Where Ed Wood celebrates the joy of storytelling, Big Fish explores its necessity. Both movies show how stories shape us—one through Hollywood’s most infamous director, the other through a son trying to understand his father.

So what the fuck happened? The truth is, Big Fish was a victim of bad timing, tricky marketing, and a fandom that didn’t quite know what to do with it. But time has been kind to the film. More and more people are discovering it (or rediscovering it), and it remains one of the most heartfelt, beautifully crafted movies of the 2000s. Maybe it was never meant to be a Nightmare Before Christmas-style phenomenon. Maybe Big Fish was always supposed to be a quiet classic, living in the hearts of those who connected with it, waiting to ,be found again. So if you haven’t watched Big Fish in a while, do yourself a favor: go back and revisit it. Let yourself get lost in Edward Bloom’s stories. And when you get to that final scene—when the music swells, and the tall tales become real—just try not to cry. I dare you. Because Big Fish isn’t just one of Tim Burton’s best films. It’s one of the best films, period.