Little Shop of Horrors (1986)
1960’s The Little Shop of Horrors was a farce on every conceivable level, including the production, director Roger Corman and screenwriter Charles B. Griffith tailoring a screenplay to sets left over from a previous film and shooting it over a period of two days. The plot was just this side of incompetent and the performances were about as amateurish as the production values, perhaps even more so. Why, then, would anyone want to adapt this film into a musical play? The idea must have seemed insane. In the wrong hands, it probably would have been. But in the hands of composer Alan Menken and lyricist Howard Ashman, it transcended its lowly B-movie origins and became an exuberant entertainment – a Faustian fable, a horror comedy, and a Motown songbook all rolled into one.
Now, in the hands of director Frank Oz, the musical has made a glorious transition to the big screen. Little Shop of Horrors is the most fun you’re likely to have outside the cultish boundaries of The Rocky Horror Picture Show – a film so lively and stylish that you can’t tear your eyes away from it. The songs by Menken and Ashman are upbeat, infectious, and in many instances, cleverly funny. The plot, though unquestionably as ridiculous as that of Corman’s film, is highly engaging. This is in great part because of how Ashman, who also wrote the screenplay, so clearly and earnestly fleshed out the characters – and this is in spite of the limitations inherent of B-movie typecasts. Of course, the characters would not have come to life had it not been for Oz’s spot-on casting choices; the actors all walk the fine line between satire and seriousness, pulling off performances that are paradoxically absurd and genuine.
Oz also cared enough to hire the exact right people to create the film’s visual atmosphere, which isn’t entirely fantastical but isn’t entirely realistic, either; it exists in a delightful gray zone between gritty realism and staged theatricality. Production designer Roy Walker and cinematographer Robert Paynter capture the somewhat heightened look of New York City’s Skid Row in the early 1960s – a sleazy, dilapidated world of filthy cobblestones, rusted iron railings, and run-down brick buildings, with scuzzy bums drunkenly splayed on the sidewalks. It’s here we find a nerdy horticulturalist named Seymour Krelborn (Rick Moranis), who, along with his secret crush, the platinum blonde bimbo Audrey (Ellen Greene), works at a failing florist shop under the thumb of the crabby Mr. Mushnik (Vincent Gardenia).
Business quite unexpectedly booms when Seymour introduces his workmates, and the world, to his latest find: An unknown species of plant he affectionately dubs Audrey II, which looks like a bizarre cross between a venus flytrap, a head of cabbage, and a melon. The horror is officially put into the little shop when Seymour accidentally discovers that Audrey II feeds on human blood; initially sustained by cuts on Seymour’s fingers, a cute little bud quickly grows in size to a gigantic multi-vined monstrosity. When it finally gains the voice of Four Tops frontman Levi Stubbs, Audrey II becomes a Svengali of sorts, singing and jive-talking Seymour into providing bigger, more plentiful sources of food. Its insatiable appetite weighs heavily on Seymour’s conscience. But how can he stop? Because of his plant, he’s a national celebrity, he’s well on his way to becoming rich, and best of all, he’s winning the affections of Audrey – or, if you like, Audrey I, who dreams of a better life despite having absolutely no self-esteem.
The Audrey II character is a masterstroke of technical innovation, a feat for which effects supervisor Lyle Conway must be commended. You’re tempted to keep in the back of your mind the reality that Audrey II is merely a rubber puppet rigged with all manner of cables and levers. But when you see its sensuous red lips curling over its jagged teeth, its green-striped head lolling from side to side, its vines snaking through the air – and, most importantly, its miraculous chemistry with Moranis, and any other living, breathing actor it has in its sights – you cannot help but put up all logical roadblocks and simply believe that it’s real. In all the years I’ve been watching movies, I’ve yet to see a special effect more convincing.
Staying in the periphery is a trio of young women (Tichina Arnold, Tisha Campbell, and Michelle Weeks). At times, they appear as ghetto-talking street urchins clad in jackets, taking part the same way any other character would. At other times, they’re omniscient narrators wearing fancy girl-group dresses, magically singing backup with characters that don’t see them. Imagine a Greek chorus crossed with The Supremes, and you’ve got it. These characters are key to not only establishing the musical sound, but also to the balancing of tone. The very idea of backup singers appearing in a movie is campy at best, since a movie by its very nature doesn’t require such a physical presence; and yet, because their vocal and visual styles are so appropriate to the ‘60s era, you really can’t imagine how the story can be told without them.
A subplot involves Audrey’s boyfriend – an abusive, misogynistic, motorcycle-riding, sadistic dentist played with scene-stealing hilarity by Steve Martin. His introductory song, sung in a priceless Elvis-esque voice, is a wonderfully dark ode to the dental profession and a masterpiece of perverted self-aggrandizement. Just wait until you see his stash of tortuous dental equipment, and how he utilizes them in a scene with an equally perverted patient played by Bill Murray. Also be on the lookout for appearances by Christopher Guest, John Candy, and Jim Belushi, who each own the ability to intentionally play their characters as one-note stereotypes. And therein lies the greatness of Little Shop of Horrors; its underlying premise is bottom-of-the-barrel, yet cream-of-the-crop talent put a tremendous amount of work into it, and it paid off. What a joy this movie is.
