Tim Burton’s film Edward Scissorhands had a winning combination of mainstream appeal and cult cachet. While Johnny Depp and Winona Ryder drew the multiplex crowds, Burton attracted the alternative set with his gothic vision of clean-cut America trying to square its apple-pie values with the threat of an outsider.

When the outsider arrived with lethal blades where his hands should have been, it only added to the film’s visual playfulness. In this 1990 movie, every home was painted in a different 1950s hue and the hill at the edge of town harboured a cartoon-spooky mansion, all broken slats and gloomy corners.

For Matthew Bourne to use this as raw material for a wordless, semi-classical ballet was inspired. The new show’s look is as theatrical as it is cinematic. Above all, it has a simple, fairy-tale narrative, with echoes of Pinocchio, Frankenstein and Beauty and the Beast, that lends itself to dance.

His stage version differs in detail from the film, but follows the same basic arc. In Bourne’s staging, Edward is a human robot created by a bereaved father. Frightened by Hallowe’en revellers, the father dies from a heart attack before he can finish Edward’s hands, leaving his creation to wander the streets, arms waving in front of him, until he is taken in by a well-meaning housewife.

The community’s consternation at having this mop-haired, white-faced, leather-clad young man in their midst gives way to lusty enthusiasm when they discover he has the versatility of a Swiss army knife. Barbecues, topiary and hair cutting — those staples of suburbia — are elevated to a whole new order when you have scissors for hands.

But their tolerance of Edward is conditional. All it takes is a jealous boyfriend and an accidental drawing of blood for the misfit to be hounded out of town, where, unlike the film, he meets his end.

You can tell by the number of goths in the audience that it’s a story that appeals to the misunderstood. But by refusing to go all the way down the Beauty and the Beast route, it denies the possibility of reconciliation and transformation. The potentially liberating romance that begins between Edward and Kim is not allowed to flourish, which means the outward beastliness of Edward and the inner beastliness of the townsfolk never changes.

Refusing to play the archetypal game in this way mutes the emotional impact of the film and stunts the power of the ballet. There are several times when you feel the need for dialogue in Bourne’s staging, but, surprisingly, what you miss most are songs. The story repeatedly sets up emotional states that need to be explored, but all we get is a plaintive expression and a slick jump to the next scene.

Meanwhile, Terry Davies’s tremendous score, which takes Danny Elfman’s original soundtrack and fills it out with Bernstein and Gershwin-style American jazz, seems to be pushing all the time towards a big sing-along number. It’s like Westside Story without a Maria or a Tonight to give us an insight into Edward’s loneliness and Kim’s conflicting desires.

As a result, the best moments in the show are when Bourne puts the story on hold and lets rip with a communal dance scene. He might not break new ground, but when he fills the stage with dancers, his choreography has a wonderful life and energy. In the title role, Sam Archer (alternating with Richard Winsor) takes his cue directly from Depp, mirroring his staccato trot, blank face and tilted head, while bringing a classical grace of his own.

It all adds up to a show that’s fun, accessible and easy on the eye, even as it glides over the emotional depths.

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