I credit the genius of the work 'Sweeney Todd' to Mr. Steven Sondheim, and the magnificent film portrayal to Mr. Tim Burton and all other members involved. The following is my take on the past.
He was a good looking man. Was. He was in his late thirties, pale faced with brooding dark eyes. There was something profound about them, as though he'd experienced a lifetime of pain. All the rich attractiveness his face could have held seemed to have sunken into the background. At the foreground was a chilling anger that lit his features with fire. His dark hair fell into his eyes.
She paused her work, her eyes lighting up upon his entrance into her shop. She was thin and bony, but there was a fierce energy radiating from her. Her curly hair was piled atop her head with little care, though she wore it proudly. She appeared to be older than she actually was. Her eyes searched him, a look of pity briefly flickering across her face. Most people withdrew after looking into his eyes, but hers lingered there.
"Hungry?" she asked. The man didn't move. He stood, still studying her. She walked forward and gently nudged him towards the nearest seat. She closed the door behind him and went to the counter. She grabbed a dusty plate from the shelf underneath and quickly placed a pie on top. When she sat it in front of him, he didn't recoil as she had expected.
"Dig in," she told him, sitting opposite. "Don't expect greatness. They're rumored to be the worst pies in London." He hesitated, but reached forward and took a bite. His face darkened with the taste. He attempted to mask his repulsion, though he assumed she was used to that sort of reaction. She stood.
"You don't have to pretend to like it. I know they're nothing to brag about. I'll get you some ale. You'll need it." She walked towards the counter again, this time reaching for a glass. Once he was sure she wasn't looking, he spat the pie to the ground. "Times is hard," she sighed, filling the glass. "I barely get by. You can't expect to sell good pies when you got nothing more than lard to work with. That's the way it goes I guess."
She turned around again, placing a cup in front of him. Eager to clear his mouth of the bitter taste, he drank deeply. The ale was not much of an improvement, but it helped. She continued to talk.
"I'll wager if I found a way to do business like Mrs. Mooney, I'd be living a little better. Though, her methods are what you could call unorthodox. I've got me suspicions about where she gets her meat. I've noticed her neighbors cats are disappearing right and left. Would never do in my shop. Just the thought of it's enough to make you sick." She watched him as he drank. He looked so familiar. He set down the drained ale glass. It had helped while he was drinking it, but now the taste in his mouth was even more nauseating. The woman sensed this, and stood.
"C'mon, I'll get you a nice tumbler of gin. That should wash the taste out," she walked out of the room, and he followed. She led him into the parlor, decorated in green wallpaper with a fire glowing in the fireplace. Nothing around here had changed. Not even Mrs. Lovett.
She handed him another glass. He took it.
"Go on and sit down," she said, nodding towards the chairs. He sat and drank. She could see the relief spreading across his face. In between drinks he asked,
"You have a room over the shop, I noticed. If times is so hard, why don't you rent it out?" She sighed and went to sit in the chair next to his. His inquisitiveness made her suspect there was more to the gentleman than he was telling. Of course, he hadn't even bothered to mention his name. He didn't need to, though. She had a feeling her suspicions were accurate.
"Up there? I won't go near it. People think it's haunted," she told him.
"Haunted?" He asked. She had kindled his interest.
"Yeah. And who's to say they're wrong? Years ago, something happened to its last residents. Something rather unpleasant."
"Do tell," he urged. He was curious to know what people were saying about him. No doubt Mrs. Lovett's version would accurately depict all the succulent hearsay visitors would be curious about. Unless she suspected him.
"A barber used to live up there with his wife and daughter. His name was Benjamin Barker. He was the best barber London has ever had; a proper artist with a knife. But he got sent to prison," she said. She was looking for any sign of irritation in the man. He showed none.
"What was his crime?" he asked her. She paused. The man had committed no real crime, he had been falsely charged.
"Foolishness," she answered finally. "He didn't notice the affections other men showed towards his wife. Powerful men. There was this Judge, you see, who fell for his wife, and he was the one who sent Barker off to prison. He had the law in his pocket, see. The Judge figured that once Barker was out of the way, his wife would be easy to have. He was so wrong. She was angry at him, poor thing. She rarely left that room. Took care of her little daughter, Johanna, coming out only when necessary. The Judge sends her flowers, begging her to visit him. Still, she doesn't leave her room. Finally, one day, the Beadle calls on her. He tells her that the Judge has realized his sin and wants to make it up to her. He tells her the Judge expects her over for dinner. So off goes Lady Barker with the Beadle.
"But she doesn't know the Judge is having a masked ball. Unable to recognize anyone, she wanders around in distress; drinking. She drank a little too much. And the Judge, well, he wasn't as contrite as the Beadle painted him to be. And Lady Barker, in her drunken condition, couldn't really do much to stop him. He-"
"No!" the man interrupted her, standing. She studied his face again.
"So it is you," she whispered. "Benjamin Barker." He turned to look at her, his eyes filled with profound melancholy.
"Where is Lucy?" he asked her. His voice was filled with a doomed hope, as if he knew the answer before Mrs. Lovett opened her mouth.
"She poisoned herself. Arsenic. She got it from the apothecary around the corner. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn't listen to me," she said quietly. "And he's got your daughter."
"He? Judge Turpin?" Barker asked, his dark eyes glinting with malice as he said the name. Mrs. Lovett nodded.
"He's adopted her. Like his own. Made her his ward."
Barker turned away from her. She stood, wanting to comfort him. Angrily, he threw off his coat and tossed it carelessly on the chair.
"Fifteen years," he said, darkly. "Fifteen years, I've sweated in a living hell on a false charge. Fifteen years dreaming I might come home to a wife and child." Mrs. Lovett cautiously took a step towards him. She gently placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Well, I can't say that the years have been particularly kind to you, Mr. Barker." He turned sharply to face her, the dark fire in his eyes alight once more.
"No! Not Barker," he said sharply. "That man is dead. It's Todd now. Sweeney Todd. And he will have his revenge," he uttered the last words of his sentence very clearly, but very dangerously quiet.
"Well, you can take your old room then," she said. "Mr. Todd." She led him up the stairs, and unlocked the door he'd stepped through so many times. It seemed like all his memories were from another lifetime ago. As far as Todd was concerned, it was another lifetime ago.