Great things -- terrible, but great

Rating: 9/10 (24 February 2010)

I have about a fifty-fifty success rate on Tim Burton/Johnny Depp collaborations; I've loved some of them, hated some. And I don't care for Steven Sondheim as a writer of musicals, while the reviews I saw for this film when it first came out were only mediocre. I say this in order to explain why -- thanks to a Johnny Depp retrospective at the National Film Theatre in London -- I've only just seen for the first time a film that premiered for the rest of the world a couple of years ago; and why I've been blown away by it.
This is a terrible story... and I mean that in its true, original sense. The only possible 'happy' ending, when all is played out, would be for all the characters to die -- death at least being an end, rather than living with what has happened -- and this is, more or less, what happens. In between comes betrayal, obsession, virtual incest (in what sort of relationship has the Judge stood to his 'ward' throughout her childhood?), warped affections, and industrial-scale murder; not to mention lashings of blood in a volume generally only deployed for comic effect. The outcome here is very far from humorous.
But it is not the blood that makes the film so terrible (and had me sitting almost throughout with both hands clutched tightly together and slippery with sweat). The true horror lies in its moral and emotional underpinnings, where even parental affections are not to be trusted -- ultimately, Todd appears to value his daughter more as bait for his revenge on the Judge than as a beloved child or even an innocent to be saved, while Mrs Lovett's protective feelings towards Toby cannot trump her sense of survival. And while she may be attracted to her former neighbour, right from the start of their relationship there are moments when she is afraid of him too...
The twists to the plot become evident to the audience at just about the right moment, namely slightly before the characters themselves realise; enough anticipation to create a dreadful dramatic irony. The overall effect is to deliver a massive, shell-shocking emotional kick: almost in its entirety the audience sat shattered throughout the length of the credits, only beginning to file out with lowered eyes and voices when the house lights finally came on. I'm not sure what we'd been expecting: black comedy perhaps, the sardonic glitz of "Chicago". This film is far closer in tone to Depp's Jack-the-Ripper vehicle, "From Hell" -- but it is much more effective than the latter both as a thriller and as a 'slasher' chill-maker. (At least one shot in the early scenes reminded me vividly of a corresponding momentary image in Todd Slaughter's hammed-up 1930s "Sweeney Todd", and the dockside locations are recognisably similar: accurate historical reproduction, or a brief homage from a cinematically-literate director to his predecessor?)
On a personal level, I've been going through a long fallow period when nothing I saw, not even re-watching classic movies, could seem to wake any kind of real response: "Sweeney Todd" has jolted me back into belief in the power of cinema again. Like Sweeney, I may have just waded through Hell, but I'm alive at last and from that, full of joy.
I still don't get on with Sondheim (as with "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum", the film version contains only one memorable song, by the standards of this lover of old musicals at least -- and it isn't the would-be traditional 'Joanna'); but frankly, you don't watch this for the soundtrack. The music is more in the nature of ambient effects. I was astonished to read that 80% of the dialogue in the film is actually sung, as I certainly wasn't conscious of this while watching.
It is true, I'm afraid, as the original critics pointed out, that Helena Bonham Carter's vocal delivery isn't really up to the role: when a grown woman's singing is in danger of being overpowered by a boy soprano in their numbers together, it's a sign that something's not right. Her breathy little voice was fine for the Corpse Bride's numbers with the equally hesitant Victor, and is adequate for most of what she is asked to do here, but there are moments when the contrast is not kind to her performance -- in her final duet with Sweeney especially, some vital plot material is inaudible. Johnny Depp, on the other hand, of whom I'd seen similar criticisms, sounded fine, and both are sufficiently effective actors (and the music, to my ear, sufficiently underwhelming) to bring their characters across regardless.
My real problem in this respect was with Jamie Campbell Bower in the unrewarding cardboard role of juvenile romantic interest: I actually assumed that his singing had been rather clumsily dubbed by another vocalist, so little relation did it bear to his speaking voice and so oddly detached it seemed from his lip movements. Both young lovers, alas, are little more than plot ciphers, and one feels that this part of the plot could really have been cut out of the film altogether to its improvement. The story and tragedy is that of the title character, and it is hard to care much about young Anthony.
For these issues, and for some very fake blood (were they worried about sickening the audience beyond bearing?), I'll knock off a point to score this film at 9/10; this is still a rating I give to few pictures of any era, and to very few indeed from the last forty years.