Sweeney Todd looks like an old monster movie that someone slowly drained of color. London is gray, filthy, and choking on smoke, so when the blood finally comes, it hits like a slap. And it comes a lot. Burton insisted on this, because he felt that stage versions with less blood lost their power. The gore here is big and almost cartoonish, but it is not easy to shake off.
Johnny Depp is the reason it works. His Sweeney barely speaks and barely blinks, with sunken eyes and a white streak in his hair. He is not a trained singer, and his voice is thin, but it cracks with sadness in a way that suits the role. Helena Bonham Carter is funny and quietly heartbreaking as Mrs. Lovett, the pie seller who loves him. Alan Rickman and Timothy Spall are nasty in all the right ways, and Sacha Baron Cohen steals his scenes as a loud rival barber.
The music is the real test. Sondheim's songs are dark, clever, and hard, and very little of the film is spoken. If you hate musicals, this may not change your mind. Not everyone loves it either. Some critics felt the singing never soars and that the leads lack chemistry, and the young lovers feel thin next to everything else.
But the songs are where this story gets its feeling. Hearing a man sing tenderly to his razor is far creepier than any jump scare. It is cruel, funny, and sad, and the final minutes are some of the most brutal Burton has ever made.
