Sweeney Todd

The year’s best splatter movie is also the most exhilarating musical in recent memory. And make no mistake—Tim Burton’s take on the stage classic is a full-blown horror movie, albeit filled with more coast-to-coast singing, and gorgeous music, than most other musicals. The graphic violence will turn away—and turn off—some viewers, but it is not only integral to the story being told, but also fully delivers on the Grand Guignol elements that were always central to Stephen Sondheim’s vision. At several points, there are close-range long takes on jets of blood straight out of an old school samurai-movie and cinematographer Dariusz Wolski even allows the red stuff to land on the lens more than once. In short, Sweeney Todd’s set ends up looking like the kind of theme park that Dexter Morgan might design. In a title sequence that honestly foreshadows what’s to come, streams of deep crimson run, drip, slide, and pool; they do everything but coagulate. And for once this stylistic use of blood does not simply signal a slightly fetishistic bent in terms of the art direction: the movie is actually intended to be a bloody drama, and makes no apologies about this fact from square one.

However, horror fans would do well to note that it is well into the movie before even the first such death occurs. That hardly means, though, that a waiting-game takes place until then. Rather, the gradual build-up of an overall atmosphere of menace and corruption (social, personal, and spiritual) is done in ways that are seldom less than compelling. And even during the “slow” periods, when no on-screen deaths occur, there is enough voyeurism, cannibalism, quasi-incest, and madness to make Sweeney Todd an extremely dark feature by any standard.

Yet like any truly accomplished director of horror, Burton knows enough to leaven the material with humor as needed to provide the proverbial relief valve for the audience. And to my delight, the humor here was not of the self-indulgently quirky variety present in other Burton films but rather was true to the boldly iconoclastic black comedy of the source material.

At the risk of sounding glib, I should say that it often seemed that half the filmmakers’ job was done as soon as the casting was complete. In the title role, Johnny Depp delivers a hugely satisfying performance. But what’s truly remarkable is that, apart from this movie, you rarely get the dual pleasure of watching someone act on film—and act this well—through the nuanced articulation of each line that’s being sung. In other words, Depp is not taking a break from "acting" when he launches into song, but is actually extending the intensity of his performance. By this point in their collaboration, Burton has learned to make use not only of Depp’s presence and skill as an actor but also the aura he gives off as a star—there’s no tradeoff between these, as in previous outings.

Opposite Depp is Helena Bonham Cater, who handles the comedic and dramatic demands of her role with equal talent. Her Mrs. Lovett is not a dotty old dingbat but more a lost soul of a Goth girl who hooks up with her damaged dream man—she's a not-too-distant relative of Fight Club’s Marla Singer. And while Bonham Carter’s singing is certainly respectable, the limitations of her range are evident as well. For example, when she sings, “These are probably the worst pies in London…!”, the words should soar—it’s part of the majestic irony of the boast—but her voice never gets quite airborne. To be sure, she is wonderful at conveying the wit of Sondheim’s lyrics, but not the powerful swells of his music.

In closing, it’s an exaggeration to say that,there’s no question movie adaptation could never have imagined a more thrilling big screen version than this.