“For all the wild swipes of Sweeney’s razor, spattering red on the lens, was there not more threat, and mystery, in the sight of Johnny Depp as Edward Scissorhands — the lost soul who could kill at will but never did?” — from Anthony Lane‘s Sweeney Todd review in the 12.24 New Yorker.
Shouldn’t Lane be tapping out a blog of some kind? Is there a major-league film critic who writes less frequently? No one’s saying that volume rules above all, but reading appetites have become much more voracious over the least five years or so and you just can’t loll around and and bang out two or three elegantly-phrased reviews per month and call it sufficient. Because it isn’t. Not any more.