Mile Hive

Fatherless Sophie, on finding her mother’s diary, tracks down her three possible dads (Sam, Harry, and Bill) and invites them to her wedding under the guise of her mother, Donna. Who will walk her down the aisle? Are Donna’s old flings really over? Are pop classics enough to sustain an ailing plotline and amateur-hour singing? Mamma Mia isn’t Shakespeare, but it isn’t far from it. That is if all’s well that ends well.

Let us assume that anyone compelled to go see the film is not concerned with trivial matters like coherence of plot, or logic, or gesticulation which would elsewhere appear odd and over the top - this is a musical, after all.

Why then, as a musical buff, did I have such great difficulty digesting the theatrical fruits of this veritable mardi gras, when the stage production had me clapping away and pondering lycra pants until the curtain fell for the last time?

Musicals are a soft-bellied beast, and have a solid history of translating terribly to film (Xanadu, Godspell, Rent, Evita, Bollywood), but I have a hard time grasping why that is. There is something horribly self-conscious in the  way a character sings to camera in a film musical: confronted with an impenetrable fourth wall, their convulsing faces are captured closely in pixilated rage. Moreover, I feel there is a certain incongruence in the style of acting required.

Film requires nuanced performance, while stage work must be larger than life – hence the singing. Meryl Streep’s turn as Donna in  Mamma Mia is at times painful to watch, and a waste of her talents, though you can see she doesn’t much care what you think. Set in the shimmering Greek Isles, the film boasts a truly delectable set, which yet becomes something of an obstacle to the audience who try their best to imbibe prerecorded lyrics as the singers run up and down mountains, never once huffing. Suspending your disbelief is like swallowing a horse tablet here; that is to say the filmmakers are clearly aware of the elephant in the room, and make good mileage out of hamming it up.

As in the musical, the self-reflexive gene is apparent, and spontaneous flurries of song rarely escape without a bit of ragging; several times characters lead into the songs we know are coming unaccompanied, an alienating device which makes for a good rib tickle. However, you know things are awry when pivotal moments are hysterical to the crowd. Pierce Brosnan, as Sam, becomes the unfortunate victim of unintentional comedy as he pipes up for his crucial number - my theatre, at least, in stitches.

I should say he sounds something like Jimmy Nail crooning in the shower.

Colin Firth as the former Harry Headbanger (‘HB’) is thoroughly emasculated, if still mighty appealing, and ends his turn in the arms of his topless male lover (you know things are backward when a musical passes time depicting straight, bumbling people as gay). Suitor number three, Bill, played by Stellan Skarsgård, has little to sing, and so escapes ridicule, though he does flash his tattooed buttocks at one precious spot.

The musical numbers were the big let down in the film, as there was abundant fun and requisite dancing under clotheslines throughout otherwise. The voices were uniformly weak; the leads punier than their support. The directors tread the line between producing a sort of High School Musical bubblegum offering - voices tending more toward the Britney end of the pop spectrum than the Christina – and simply inserting a more professional backdrop into an hour and a half of karaoke.

This is quite at odds with the composition: Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus have created winning musicals like Chess built on blockbuster vocals. It is also unfaithful to the ABBA originals, known the world over for their tightly choreographed routines and sharply performed harmonies.

Often in ‘adapting’ a pop song, the eccentricities of quaver and syncopation are shorn off and replaced by rounded crochets. This is how the singers sound. Add a little nervous trilling at the end, and you, too, will wonder where the ballsy vibrato seen on Broadway (Carolee Carmello, anyone?) had disappeared to. Remember how angry we get when musicians decide they can act? How could we let Academy Award winners commit the same crime? (I shall let Amanda Seyfried, who plays Sophie earnestly, off on this charge.)

Donna’s gal pals are still the heart of the show, as well as the funny bone, and do well replicating the sass of the stage - Christine Baranski as three-time divorceé Tanya is particularly ribald. The trio of middle-aged women is crucial to the show, and are designed to overshadow the younger plotline, stealing the show as the comic element, and no doubt appealing to the original boomer ABBA fans in attendance.

I was seated next to Walter Matthau’s doppelganger, for whom the Disney-esque ‘Under the sea’ numbers were a bit much, conveyed with loud harrumphs of ‘Oh, boy’ and ‘Ah dear’, ‘They are all terrible singers, but she’s the worst!’ Certainly he found the cast guilty of gratuitous mimicry, which the filmmakers no doubt self-diagnosed and decided to flaunt.  As a music video, all that was missing were the wet t-shirts – remedied by a riotous ending sequence to bring down the curtain, and tear off your clothes.

Such blatant silliness could not but be enjoyed, no matter your critical opinion of the undertaking.

Yes, I found out that nothing can capture a heart like a melody can. After the ‘encore’, I asked the gentleman next to me what he thought. ‘Very amusing.’ he replied dryly, betraying a smile.   So, if you know what you are in for, go sample the Greek ambrosia: expect a little love, a lot of dancing, and some of the worst on-table singing this side of Coyote Ugly.

The fabric of reality is gauzy and cheeky in this theatrical taffy, ideal for Firth’s compatriots who ‘basically... just want to put on a frock and dance.’  

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