Mamma Mia!	by M. Faust

Dennis Potter goes to hell

You know those YouTube videos where kids dress up and mime to their favorite songs? The ones you would only ever watch all the way through if said kids were blood relatives and you knew their parents were going to want your reaction? Imagine 100 minutes of that and you’ve got Mamma Mia!, the film adaptation of the hit stage production built around songs by ABBA.

Meryl Streep and Amanda Seyfried in Mamma Mia!

You’re not going to hear a lot of straight males from my generation admit to this, but I was an ABBA fan in the 1970s. Still am. What’s not to like? Granted, there’s no depth to stuff like “S.O.S” and “Waterloo” and “Fernando” and “Voulez Vous” and dozens more. But there’s room in the world for perfectly crafted hook-laden pop music, and no one ever produced catchier singles than Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus.

Mamma Mia! hit the world’s stages just when the time was ripe for a revival of interest in the band that went from being an international sensation to an object of mockery in the punk era. And, of course, at the time when people who were teens in the 1970s could afford to start seeing live theatrical productions.

The show has a plot, loosely lifted from an old Gina Lollobrigida movie (1968’s Buona Sera, Mrs. Campbell), but that hardly matters. The story is only there to serve as a thread to tie together the songs, which may not be your idea of high theatrical art, but it sure sells tickets.

But as has been demonstrated many, many times, what works in live theater doesn’t necessarily work on film. You and I know this, but the film’s producers apparently forgot that cardinal rule when, in looking for someone to direct the film, gave the job to the director of the original stage production, Phyllida Lloyd.

Lloyd is a renowned director of operas and musicals on the London stage. On the basis of her work in this movie, however, she has no cinematic imagination. Absolutely none. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she’s never even seen a movie before. Remember the movie version of The Producers, also filmed by the director of the Broadway version? This is even worse.

Lloyd seems to have worked under the assumption that a film director’s job is to assemble her performers, put them in front of some nice-looking locations, and make sure the camera stays focused while they do their stuff. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a talented cast (Meryl Streep, Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth, Christine Baranski, Julie Walters, Stellan Skarsgård) so desperately in need of direction and not getting it.

Ignore the non-musical sequences, in which the actors overemote like they’re playing to the cheap seats. (And while you’re at it, ignore the fact that the main cast, with an average age of 57, is a good two decades too old for their parts.) A movie like this, especially one with such a threadbare plot, is going to stand or fall on the singing and dancing.

But far from re-interpreting the songs or tailoring them to the talents of the cast, we hear what are apparently the original instrumental tracks used on the ABBA recordings, with the original vocals stripped away and replaced by the cast. It would be both cheaper and more satisfying simply to buy a greatest hits collection on CD and listen to that.

Worse, none of the songs are imaginatively staged. The dancing is on the level of what you might see at a family wedding with a generous open bar, a lot of prancing about and waving of arms in the air. Are there no talented choreographers willing to work in movies anymore? Where are the new Busby Berkeleys? Hell, where are the new Paula Abduls?

The closest thing to a successful number is Christine Baranski, essentially reprising her maneater character from Cybil, vamping her way through “Does Your Mother Know” as a put-down to a younger man trying to extend a one-night stand. It’s still poorly staged and edited, but at least they’re trying. (It’s also the film’s one tip of the hat to the substantial gay audience that is eager to see this.)

More often, Lloyd simply abandons her performers once they’ve been framed in front of the scenic Greek island location, leaving them to flop around like something that has just leapt ashore from the Aegean Sea and is deeply regretting the move. A little judicious editing could have gone a long way toward saving Streep’s rendition of the mawkish “The Winner Takes It All.” Instead, what is supposed to be the movie’s emotional high point leaves you wanting to look away from the screen in embarrassment.

At least Streep can sing, even if she does tend to try to squeeze more out of these lyrics than they deserve. She carries most of the tunes ably enough, though otherwise seems to be laboring under the impression that she’s at a hoedown. (Be careful what you dress as, because you may become it.) The only other cast member asked to make much of a vocal contribution is Brosnan, whose duet with Streep on “S.O.S.” is bad enough to become a camp classic. It’s even funnier in the abbreviated version on YouTube, where most of Mamma Mia! looks more at home than it does on the big screen.