I’m just doing my job… it’s not my fault if I Lovett.

I’ll be honest: I’d have been skeptical if someone had told me a week ago that I’d soon be in love with a razor-wielding maniac. That was before I saw Sweeney Todd. Good lord, but I’m sure a psychopath shouldn’t be quite that attractive. All of a sudden I find myself questioning my previous disdain for those freakish American women who marry notorious serial killers on death row. Though it must be remembered that their homicidal hubbies generally don’t look even half as fine as Johnny Depp, or sport dashingly tailored leatherwear like it’s a second skin that’s been marinated in sweaty revenge. He can slit my throat and throw me in the incinerator any day of the week - it would totally be worth it for the physical contact.
Not sure how all this affects the clause in my current will that on death my body should be rendered in a hair product manufacturing plant and sent to David Tennant under the guise of the latest word in gel for the discerning Timelord who likes to use that bit too much product. Feel I’ve betrayed David in some way, sigh.
Enough of this macabre speculation! Disturbing lust aside, how was Sweeney Todd as a film? Even leaving Mr Depp out of the equation, I was incredibly impressed. I disagree with a review which maintained that Helena Bonham Carter can’t sing - it’s more that she’s not a trained pro, and thus her vocals express a bit of humanity and character: perfect for Mrs Lovett, who must surely take her place in the great pantheon of movie villains who are completely amoral - in the true sense of that word. Her genius is far removed from the cackling schadenfreude of folk who take pleasure in their victim’s pain; she’s simply spied an unmissable business opportunity, augmented in its efficacy by her passion for the demon barber and the fact that it solves his problems too. Respect.
I could write at length about the supporting cast, but of course Alan Rickman is beautifully wrong, and of course Timothy Spall is splendidly unctuous - no surprises there. Sacha Baron Cohen is fabulous too, although to say why would slightly spoil his plotline.
As an adaptation, it’s flawless: they’ve cut three hours of stage-time down to two hours of screen-time, and it actually feels like barely an hour and a half. Oh, just go see it, why don’t you? Even if you normally hate musicals - Sondheim’s songs flow seamlessly into the plot, rather like opera - there are no off-putting “Here is the dialogue. And now… [turn to camera] we sing!” moments. Top notch.