Johnny Depp's demon barber sounds like Captain Jack's effete relation; what's more, Edward Scissorhands does not have the pipes for Stephen Sondheim's demanding score. Neither, for that matter, do Helena Bonham Carter, Alan Rickman, or Timothy Spall, though they at least fill out their characters' respective carriages. Tim Burton left a lot of the original Sweeney Todd on the cutting room floor, with the maestro's consent: as Sondheim himself pointed out, the grammar of cinema dictates that you not spoil the ending, hence "The Ballad of Sweeney Todd" is out, as are a number of "unnecessary," far more minor tunes. This streamlining (along with the magic of film editing and the absence of an intermission) turns a three-hour musical into a two-hour silver bullet of a movie, but it also thins out the musical's baroque quality, turning a grand tragedy into a fine thriller. To Burton's credit, he makes up for it by letting the vino flow, with gouts of blood the consistency of tomato soup accompanying each unfortunate customer's demise. (The director also shows the victims' heads cracking open as they hit the bakehouse's stone floor after a ride down Todd's disposal, a gruesome touch illustrating the inherent visual advantages his medium affords.) Sweeney Todd is at its feverish best in its final moments, when it leaves Sondheim's vision unmolested, ending with a perversion of the Pieta; high art reverting to its Penny Dreadful origins, becoming high art again.
