Fans of the Tim Burton-Johnny Depp franchise can rejoice, and as usual, leave their critical faculties at the door. Their heroes have come through, spraying the screen with ketchup, acting the gamut from A to B, yelling their way toward Oscar noms. Or not. For the rest of usaware that Sondheim's great score is also the high point of late-20th Century music theatrethe movie Sweeney Todd is a noisy, thudding, completely unsatisfying bore. Depp starts out angry and goes nowhere. The voice is thin, reedy, and often overpowered by Jonathan Tunick's aggressive orchestrations. Depp barely manages to even look at Helena Bonham-Carter, and she, as Mrs. Lovett, connects only to little Ed Sanders--who as Toby, steals every single scene he's in. In other words, the chemistry is off, off, OFF. Alan Rickman is the sexiest Judge Turpin on record, but must make due without singing the great "mea culpa." Anthony and Johanna are sung by pretty actors who have little to no impact whatsoever, and Burton leaves their story unresolved. I enjoyed Sacha Baron Cohen as Pirelli, but don't think he was right for his role either. Again, Ed Sanders as Toby was amazing, but that's not the reason we go to see Sweeney Todd. In the words of the real fright master, Bela Lugosi, "Beware, beware, beware."
