Lunt-Fontanne Theater, West 46th Street, New York; June 22, 2023—New York loves Stephen Sondheim’s stunningly creepy Sweeney Todd. There have been many productions since the original Broadway success in 1979; the New York City Opera offered it in 1964 and then again in ‘87 and 2004, as in the original, with Jonathan Tunick’s grand 26-piece orchestration. John Doyle directed a stripped down, 10-person, 10-instrument version in 2005; in it Patti LuPone, as Mrs. Lovett, played the tuba, and the other cast members played instruments as well. Its intensity and concentration were dazzling, but it felt too small. A huge, operatic semi-staged version hit Lincoln Center in 2014, starring Welsh bass-baritone Bryn Terfel and Emma Thompson. There was a mini-version staged in 2017 at the wee Barrow Street Theater with nine players and three musicians at which pies were served pre-performance.
But now Sondheim’s original vision is back on Broadway, and what a show it is. It always tends to be effective—its tragic tale, its morbidness, the weird charisma of its two anti-heroes, its grimy setting, its overt melodrama and spectacular score never fail. But now, seen big again, it’s a knockout.
It opens in semi-darkness; we see the arch of a gloomy bridge and little else in Mimi Lien’s scenery at the open: it’s as disorienting as it’s supposed to be. The cast emerges from the obscurity of Natasha Katz’s sunless lighting, complete with fog; director Thomas Kail’s ensemble too, suddenly appears, aggressively. And then Todd, who also seems flung from an abyss to the lip of the stage as the audience goes wild for the raison d’être of this new production: Josh Groban.
I admit to having been concerned that this crowd-pleasing, multi-platinum singer (he has sold almost 23 million records), with his boyish good looks, easy vocalism, and almost unstoppable charm wouldn’t have the chops, either vocally or dramatically, to fill Sweeney Todd’s shoes. But Todd isn’t merely a murderer. We are told that he was a good man wronged, that he was naive, that he adored his wife and was railroaded, convicted, and sent to a penal colony in Australia. Groban’s Todd, in gentler moments, lets us see this man, now a vengeful wreck. And when Groban lets go, as in the cry “At last, my arm is complete,” all charm is scattered. It’s true that we’re used to hearing gruffer sounds in the role, but Groban works hard—he snarls, he hollers. But then, when he sings about his wife, the beautiful sound caresses and we see what dreadful events have done to this man.
It is up to his Mrs. Lovett, Annaleigh Ashford, to supply the wackiness, and she does. Utilizing an odd semi-cockney accent that often doesn’t sound like any language on earth, she inflects every word. And her very physical performance is a riot—she slides down stairs on her butt, she snakes herself around Todd to our delight and his horror. “Have a little priest,” the number that closes the first act, is always a show-stopper, but here it’s more: our leads are letting their Grand Guignol hair down and reveling in what they know is absolute horror. They laugh wildly and so do we.
The innocent sailor, Anthony, who courts Todd’s daughter, Johanna, is a sweet-voiced Daniel Yearwood, who manages to be optimistic even when it’s looking bad, and Johanna herself is Maria Bilbao, all innocence despite some shrill sounds above the staff. Judge Turpin and Beadle Bamford, our dastardly villains, are suitably perverse and awful. It’s a pity that Turpin’s sickening self-flagellation scene was cut by Director Kail; Jamie Jackson would have done it proud.
John Rapson impressed as the Beadle. Nicholas Christopher’s Pirelli was piercing and funny. Gaten Matarazzo, baby-faced, vaguely pudgy and loving, was a moving and surprising Toby. And if you don’t know the opera’s dreadful final punchline, Jeanna De Waal’s pathetic, kinky Beggar Woman will instill pity and dread.
It’s not a perfect Sweeney; the first and subsequent Hal Prince productions come close. Here Thomas Kail sometimes buries the stage in such semi-darkness that we’re left puzzled, and Steven Hoggett’s choreography makes its point early on (zombie-like movements) and then gets repetitive. And why, oh why, was the factory whistle eliminated?
But the charismatic leads leave you stunned, as they should, and as you leave the comfort of the theater and wind up near Times Square at its most crowded and hostile, you almost long for Fleet Street again.
An original cast recording is in the works. It will make a fine addition to the original, with Angela Lansbury and Len Cariou.
