Ah Sweeney! Ah humanity! Oh my God: BRILLIANT. You could feel it in the air as you rounded the street corner and saw the crowd, the people lined up back to yonder. Abuzz. The lights went down and the roar started, applause, applause, lifting us out of our seats. It was electrifying.
So much ado about this particular treatment: "Why mess with a classic?" Because one test of a classic is its malleabilty -- how far can it be stretched before it breaks? Can it be broken? I suppose it's possible, but I've seen three vastly different productions of "Sweeney Todd," and each has succeeded in its own way. I firmly believe this story and this music are strong enough to warrant any number of treatments, and in any event, the decision to present the action as the wild imaginings of a lunatic seems appropriate; is "Sweeney" ever anything other than madness?
The actors-playing-instruments concept is difficult to imagine, but it works in an almost organic way, and what you sacrifice with the natural majesty of the orchestra you gain with the clarity of the lyrics. (Sidenote: You have not lived until you've seen Patti LuPone carting around a big ol' silver tuba onstage, shaking her rear end like nobody's business. Truly one for the books.)
Also: the idea that you're losing something in the characterizations by employing the actors as musicians is false, because the characterizations are entirely different from what you've seen before. This isn't Mrs. Lovett with a tuba; it's a different Mrs. Lovett.
I'll only say this: it works. A world re-imagined, stark and macabre, hyper-stylized and creeeeeepy. Against the back wall hang costumes on hooks, and a 30-foot-tall shelf stacked with tchotchkes straight out of an olde English curiosity shop. Buckets fill and refill with blood when a character is killed (during "Johanna," for example, Sweeney is standing on the coffin alone, slashing his razor in the air; actors standing below him on the stage pour blood into a bucket to symbolize each murder).
Michael Cerveris, bald head glaring ghoulish white beneath the spotlight, looks like a Charles Addams creation; his voice is both haunting and haunted. What can I say? He's a sexy man, and far more effective than I would have guessed. I'm starting to suspect he can do anything. Patti starts out as Greta Garbo in "Anna Christie," all hangdog and world-weary, and morphs into a sassy, glittering Roxie Hart for Act II, glossy black wig, black eyes, bright red lips, black skirt up to there. Gone is the cartoonish portrayal from her previous "Sweeney" outings; this is new from head to toe. They are both menacing, feral, and deadly serious even when they're being wildly funny.
And with the orchestra stripped away, it's as if you are hearing the music for the first time: not something missing, but something revealed. It sounds new again, simplified and yet multiplied and magnified, completely reborn. The essence of the thing is split wide open and you have only this glorious, passionate, living...magic. I can't believe there's not some small amount of alchemy at play here, some devil's bargain made. Because really, it's f***ing BRILLIANT.
Go. See. It. And decide for yourselves.
Updated On: 10/4/05 at 03:12 PM