at the movies

The wife gives a rare rave review to Starting Out in the
Evening. "I can't stop thinking about it" she says, which is
her gold standard.

On a somewhat less elevated plane we braved
the rain and took in Burton's Sweeney Todd last night with Devritsko.

As usual with Burton's work I was left feeling vaguely dissatisfied, although for different than usual reasons. My complaint with his oeuvre is I can see him thinking hard in every frame of film.
Not in the way a great filmmaker thinks, invisibly and in the service of some greater
artistic good, but in more of a hand-rubbing oh my this will
be so very clever way.
My roundabout way of saying his movies lack heart.

Not a problem here.
He's wise enough to make fidelity to the source a cornerstone of
the film, and it has depth and heart enough to support ten normal movies.
If only he was wise enough to cast singers in his musical.

"but Johnny Depp can't sing!" I exclaimed on seeing the teaser trailer.
And neither can Helena Bonham Carter, Alan Rickman, or Timothy Spall.

The movie looks great, as with all Burton productions, and the cast does
wonders with the spoken dialog. But music is the beating heart of
Sondheim's Todd, and it is powered by singing voices. The film is a
beautiful invalid, unable to rise and walk.

It has value even in repose, but lacks the electricity needed to get off the slab.