Little
Shop of Horrors, an adaptation of the early ‘80s Off-Broadway
musical hit inspired by a 1960 Roger Corman-directed, Jack Nicholson-starring
B-movie of the same name, was one of my favorite films when I was a kid. It’s
so filled with campy energy and disparate elements that I half expected when
rewatching it to find it worse than I remembered, or at least something that I
would have to chalk up as a guilty, nostalgic pleasure. To my delightful
surprise, my critical response hasn’t shifted that much in the last fifteen
years or so. It probably elicits that same reaction precisely because the film
relies on our willingness to indulge our tastes for guilty pleasures and
nostalgia. Though the direction is not the most inspired imaginable considering
the wonderfully silly subject matter (a flesh-eating plant is a central
character), Frank Oz moves things along briskly enough that you can’t for a
moment grow bored and his tone denies any questioning of plausibility, whether
practical or emotional. The movie’s only a 94 minutes long, but includes over
a dozen songs (written by the sorely missed Howard Ashman and Alan Menken), most
of which serve to advance the plot. The ones that don’t surprisingly provide
interior monologues for the 2-D, but entertaining, characters, and establish a
disarming romantic side that sticks with you. The film’s dopey sentimentalism
works precisely because the movie is such a self-aware pastiche of genres past
that it’s practically a required element.
It doesn’t hurt much that the performers are more than game
for this material. Though Ric Moranis as Seymour, the straight-man nebbish
botanist hero, is definitely better than average, the supporting cast provides
the most memorable moments of the film. Ellen Greene is hilariously chirpy as
the wistful girl next door that catches Seymour’s eye. She fluffs her clichéd
role up to the point that it transcends kitsch and finds something genuine. A
trio of doo-wop singers provides a catchy Greek chorus. Steve Martin has perhaps
the best role of all, though, in what’s really an extended cameo. He plays the
most sadistic of movie dentists here, and the macho posturing in his body
language is absolutely priceless (he kick starts his dental chair like it’s a
motorcycle). Introduced at the precise moment when the film might start to feel
a bit one-note, he reinvigorates the picture. A scene in which a sado-masochistic
patient (Bill Murray) finds his way into his dental chair is one of the funniest
scenes in all ‘80s comedies, with two comic geniuses at the top of their form.
Special mention must also go to Audrey II, the boisterous, singing plant that
the plot revolves around. The special effects used to make this puppet come alive
are utterly convincing, in their cartoon-like way, and I can’t think of a
CGI-created character that’s surpassed it in invention or character (surely
some of the credit must go to Levi Stubbs of The Four Tops, who provided its
voice). Every element in Little Shop of Horrors works nearly as
successfully as the plant does, though. The film represents a rare example where
Hollywood has applied itself rigorously to material that might somehow seem
beneath it with wholly satisfying results.
