The story of Sweeney Todd has been around since Victorian times, perhaps because it is as simple and adaptable as pastry and filling. Someone kills people. Someone else chops them up and puts them into pies. That template can be turned into visceral folk terror, broad black pantomime, or a complex piece on revenge, obsession and trauma. However in The Horror of Dolores Roach, it’s something a lot less interesting: one of those half-hour hangout dramedies about kooky New Yorkers that isn’t bad, but isn’t really about anything, the sort of binge-watch you don’t bother to finish.
Justina Machado is Dolores, who was once a weed dealer’s devoted other half in Washington Heights. She was at home on the day her boyfriend’s business got busted, took the rap – refusing to rat on her beloved – and dutifully served a 16-year prison sentence. Now on her return to the neighbourhood, she finds her old world has gone. Her hangouts have been replaced by chichi cafes and white trust-fund couples occupy the apartments where Dominican-Americans used to live. Some poser has even got a shih tzu in a pushchair.
