There happen to be several Johnny Depp fans in my family. Though we are all women, we claim that our devotion to him is not just based on his looks, but also his undeniable talent as an actor. From Edward Scissorhands, to Secret Window, even to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Johnny Depp has got it goin' on. And yet, for some reason, none of us felt particularly moved to see Sweeney Todd. The association between music and carnage for-the-heck-of-it, or carnage in-lieu-of-a-cosmetic-service, was too weird even for those of us who fell in love with previous freakish portrayals.
But I began to change my mind about this Sweeney Todd character a few weeks ago. It probably began in my sister's room, when she was rehearsing for her role as a bee-bop girl in the musical, Little Shop of Horrors. Listening to a house plant munch on human victims, against the backdrop of a Broadway score, struck me as wholly amusing, entertaining even. However, lest I be labeled as a mentally deranged sadist, I should point out that the musical has entertained lots of other people who paid boku bucks to sit in a theater seat and watch Seymore feed unsuspecting, and sometimes willing, victims to a mutated Venus flytrap who occasionally breaks into song.
My reconsideration of Depp's most recent endeavor continued when, a few days after laughing my way through a horrific musical, I had my wisdom teeth removed. Despite my high pain tolerance, I was very nervous about this rather common procedure. This is because good ol' Dr. P. only planned to employ laughing gas and Novacaine in the sedation process, instead of the general anesthetic that the majority of my friends experienced. Instead of gaining admission to complete La-La Land, I would only be allowed into the Twilight Zone. I promised my mother to walk into his office and begin a wholehearted rock rendition of "I wanna be sedated" to convice him that his dentristry methods were medieval, if not prehistoric. Unfortunately, I wimped out at the last minute and allowed an indignant, and arrogant, Dr. P. to convice me that I would be just fine with a few shots and silly gas. I resigned myself to this by forcing a laugh and saying, "I just don't want to feel any pain, that's all." With a straight face, Dr. P. responded, "Oh, I never feel any pain when I perform surgeries." I kept waiting for a punch line, or at least for a juvenile, "Just kidding," but it never came. He simply had his assistant slap the gas mask on me while he prepped the long needles. To him, the argument was won and the carnage could begin.
While my head spun at his complete lack of bedside manner, I simultaneously began to cue up my sister's mp3 player. Interestingly enough, this is the same sister who will be co-starring in the bloody plant musical. Earlier in the day, I had decided that if my efforts to obtain general anesthesia failed, I would at least enjoy some music while large teeth were being ripped out of my head. The mp3 player isn't quite as nice as a genuine iPod, so it's impossible to control which songs will be playing when. It's on permanent shuffle mode. I anticipated hearing everything from Justin Timberlake to gospel music to Annie Lennox.
At this point in the story, I would really like to tell you that I am now in the middle of a malpractice suit against Dr. P. I would like to tell you that I began screaming in the middle of an Nsync ballad when my mandible nerve was jarringly damaged. I would like to tell you that I saw a chisel and hammer pulverize my wisdom teeth as I sang "Waiting for my Rocket to Come" by Jason Mraz in my head. I would like to tell you that I will never again have control of my lower lip, and that my chin is eternally numb.
The truth is that, other than some annoying pressure, I didn't really feel a thing and have since healed nicely. And in actuality, for someone with an active and occasionally literary imagination, listening to the Lord of the Rings soundtrack while my gums were being sawed into was both an enlightening and surreal exercise. When Dr. P. asked how I was doing mid-surgery, I slurred, "I like the music," and then promptly lapsed back into an excessively relaxed state.
If it didn't cost so much money, and I also had several other wisdom teeth, I might compile dentist chair mixes on the mp3 player and schedule bi-monthly appointments just to experience the odd union between emotionally evocative music and potentially painful procedures. But in the absence of both money and extra wisdom teeth, I will probably settle for a viewing of Sweeney Todd and a trip to the local high school to see Little Shop of Horrors. Relegate me to the demented ranks of Tim Burton if you will, but I'm just being painfully honest.
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