Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber Of Fleet Street

Achtung. Evil geniuses at work.
Stephen Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd; The Demon Barber Of Fleet Street, the original Broadway ‘gruesical’, could hardly have found a better keeper than Tim Burton. For over 20 years, we’ve gladly allowed that director’s macabre fairy-tales to dance lightly into our hearts all the while knowing that his playful shadows harboured more malevolence than they were letting on.
The jig is up now. Sweeney Todd, a masterpiece of misanthropy, sees Mr. Burton put away his childish things for a declaration to rival James Whale’s most famous lightning bolt shot. Here, our favourite gothic auteur presides as gleeful puppetmaster over a tale of rape, cannibalism and mass murder.
His Sweeney Todd (Depp, channelling David Bowie) casts a vast shadow over the already darkened, filthy streets of 18th century London. In common with all Burton’s monsters our anti-hero has a tragic personal history. Transported to the colonies by a wicked judge (Rickman), as the overture kicks in the titular barber returns home to discover that his wife has been ruined and poisoned. Years have elapsed and the magistrate who defiled the unfortunate woman now has lecherous designs on Todd’s daughter. Conveniently for His Lordship, the girl has just come of age as his ward.
Consumed by a desire for revenge, Sweeney Todd takes up residence with Mrs. Lovett (Helena Bonham Carter), proprietress of ‘The Worst Pie Shop in London’ and starts hacking his way through society. She has held a candle for him for all these years and, more importantly, you’re never short of pie filling when there’s a steady supply of cadavers.
Resembling ancient porcelain dolls, Mr. Depp and Mrs. Burton do sterling work here. He broods and festers, a Hamlet with no compunctions about pulling the trigger. As the planet’s most popular actor, it may be enough to see him take home an Oscar come March. Still, it’s Helena who steals the show. She may not quite sound like no commoner what we ever heard but her wicked heart, even during the shocking final act, seems somehow better rounded than that of her would-be paramour.
This is some kind of masterpiece though one is at a loss to pinpoint the target audience. Burton regulars may find Sondheim’s wordiness and heavy Prokofievian motifs too much to bear. This is hardcore scoring, not Mamma Mia.
Still, if the Goths and emos who make up Burton’s core constituency can get with the angular sound, this will be up there among the greatest films they’ve ever seen.