Dan's Papers - January 18, 2008 - Guy de Fraumeni's Hollywood In The Hamptons

Stephen Sondheim's subverted musicals are perfectly suited to the whimsical realms of Tim Burton's scary gothic movies. Together, they readily find dissonance in the most harmonious of children's tales, and therefore, given the time-honored, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, the adaptation of the operetta is as terrifyingly dark as we dare take a horror movie, sharing as they do, theaters alongside exhibitors of the Saw franchise. Here, however, bleak pessimism comes to the rescue, you realize in a flash! Hey, Sweeney Todd is a near masterpiece in comparison.

At its core, Sweeney Todd cries out for revenge. Johnny Depp, as Sweeney Todd, gives a stridently harsh force to his quest for vengeance, as well as a boisterous cry of comedic justice. The barber wronged by the depraved powerful judge sets up shop, cutting throats as well as hair. And, what about the leftovers? Here his business partner, Mrs. Lovett the pie maker, enters with her energetic baking style (purely personal style that is). My goodness! Mass murder and cannibalism as filler choices. What happened to Mother's good old apple pie? It went with the young Todd's innocence. He was a happily married man. His lovely wife, Laura Michelle Kelly, unfortunately attracts the sleazy attention of the lecherous judge, Judge Turpin, who was important enough to have poor Sweeney transported to Australia, destroying his happily bonded family. His daughter, now a teenager, has become the Judge's ward. The Judge is about as evil as it is for Sweeney Todd to turn to for restitution. One actor is out front. Alan Rickman is way out front, the perfect snake of a villain. The pain and anguish to be compensated for is enormous. A lot of blood and chopped pie filler will have to come down off the slue and be minced into what will be touted as the "worst savory pies in London."

The task was made easier upon finding a cache of his "dear old friends," his perfect sterling silver straight razors. Slashing across the screen, the glints zipped past the throats, followed by geysers of red, red blood. Down the chute will slide what was, for the short time, a human being now turned into meat. Then it slid into the capable mitts of Mrs. Lovett, portrayed by Mr. Burton's universal Mother figure, Helena Bonham Carter, who can handle anything. Of the bodies piling up in the bakery, "They'll never be missed," she muses. It's a world from which possible justice has been erased. No one can picture a justice. With or without a blindfold. It is a dark, dark picture. You can see the entire film from the point of view of justice. She can see nothing. Perhaps it is to serve as relief from the gore or perhaps to focus our attention on our ears as 90% of the film is sung. Mr. Depp has never sung a note on film before and here he is singing and smartly, hop scotching the line between acting and singing, stretching in range from melodies and warbling to a scorching, thrilling hammering score that follows his need for vengeance from his early madly-in-love days 'til trumped up charges by the despicable Judge Turpin takes fifteen years of his life and leaves him with a shock of white hair and a deathly white pallor and with his razor at home again clasped in his hand as he sings, "At last, my right arm is complete again." He can also reclaim his tonsorial reputation by out-belting his rival, Pirelli, a low, low comedy turn by Sacha Baron Cohen. Some of the loveliest Sondheim songs well-up with the fountains of blood as Mrs. Lovett continues to pine for the impossible dream of a life with Sweeney that might have been, something close to his early trembling days of innocent love. Tenuously, those tender days, are included as a subplot and Mrs. Lovett, the mad baker, has two of the best love songs sung in a fantasy splashed on a seaside location of matrimonial bliss.

I can at last admit that my doubts about the popularity of Mr. Burton's latest collaboration with Mr. Depp are indeed grave. Who is the audience the director has set his sights for? There's too much Grand Guignol for a Broadway theatre goer but too much singing for the average "R for graphic bloody violence." I think I'm just perverse enough to be thrilled by this production of nineteenth century London besotted with gin but I'll pass on the pie if I may.

Guy-Jean de Fraumeni is the producer, writer, and director of award winning European and American Feature Films. He has been a judge at major Film and TV award competitions, including the Oscars, the Emmy's and various film festivals. Sarah Halsey assists him.