Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street

Everyman Palace

SOME BACKGROUND information is required before the achievement of the Cork Operatic Society’s exciting production of

Sweeney Todd

can be assessed.

The society is a phoenix-like reaction to the demise of Opera 2005 – a company which is said to be not dead but sleeping.

From that coma has arisen this small group committed to collaboration with local established and emerging professionals and skilled amateurs whose provenance seems to be predominantly the CIT School of Music.

The first indication that this production, directed by Trevor Ryan, is anything but a training exercise is the challenge of the Stephen Sondheim score and lyrics (to the book by Hugh Wheeler based on Christopher Bond’s play).

The work demands both courage and confidence, qualities which Ryan and conductor and designer John O’Brien display in abundance, and with an essential hint of bravado.

Michael Sands as the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, Deirdre Bashford as the cannibalistic Mrs Lovett, Cara O’Sullivan as Pirelli, Michael Grennell as Judge Turpin, Paul O’Connor as the lover, Jack Healy as Toby all produce the goods, and not just vocally; other leads come close to the same standard and the extremely tricky patter, the often dissonant ensembles and web of intricate variations are all delivered without apparent effort.

This story of the barber wronged by Victorian injustice and whose desire for revenge drives him insane, is a gory one; the design by John O’Brien and Lisa Zagone sets a scene of bedlam, with blood-stained hangings illuminated by Mick Hurley’s lighting plot.

Although much of the action takes place in a purple murk, the narrative has a velocity that is matched by the orchestra, led by Clair Anne Lynch, with organist Colin Nicholls in a fog-bound corner.

The musicians are arranged to frame the stage risers; sound designer Lawrence White ensures that the visual and musical harmony of this embrace is unifying in itself, while the vocal distinction of the singers makes every line – and therefore all the brilliantly shaded writing – appreciable, both for its tragedy and its comedy.

Playing to a capacity audience, this is reported to be a shoe-string production, and there are signs of penury, not least in the judge’s trousers and in the absence of shaving lather and clean towels, but the question begs to be asked: if this is done on a shoe-string, what will they do if they get a real budget?

Ends tomorrow