raebari

Hubby and I paid $4.99 to watch Mama Mia on Pay Per View last night and have decided we wasted $4. We're also grateful we didn't plunk down money on movie theatre tickets to see it. Thumbnail sketch of the film: A bunch of people with women's uncombed hair streaming and guys bare-chested (so's ya know they are 70's leftovers) run up and down the streets of a seaside village, singing. They are joined by happy peasants who also seem to know the song and the dance moves. The same bunch of people run up and down a pier singing a song that sounds like the first one, and end up in the water. The same bunch of people run around rocks and trees, singing a song that sounds like the first two. The same bunch of people run up and down the beach, singing a song that sounds like the first three. The same bunch of people run through a labyrinth of halls and rooms in some sort of seaside inn, singing a song—you get the idea by now. Three men visiting the seaside inn for a wedding run around the deck of a boat, singing for the bride-to-be, whom one of them has fathered years ago but not raised. The bride (omigosh!) ends up in the water. Who knew? The same bunch of people sit transfixed on the ground as three of them, ostensibly a female trio reunited for the wedding of one of their daughters, sing the songs that made them (in)famous.

ABBA's songs are round-pegged into the square holes of the screenplay, with laughably awkward song cues that smack of a Broadway stage setting. I guess it might have worked on Broadway. As for the volume competition between the accompanying background music and the singers, final score is Instruments 10, Singers 0. Given the vapid nature of the lyrics, this is not necessarily a bad decision on the part of the film-makers. All the manic music in the film sounds alike--well, shoot it's ABBA for heavens sake--except for a nice ballad sung by Streep and the bride, her daughter. One of ABBA's best tunes, "Fernando," was missing from the film. He probably died from a heart attack brought about by all that manic running, or maybe drowned off the boat or pier.

The actress playing the daughter has expressions that run the gamut from upset to VERY upset. The most active parts of her anatomy were her frowning forehead and wild eyes. Pierce Brosnan delivers a miscast performance that makes you wonder if he's contemplating strangling his agent, or throwing him off a pier or a boat.

I know that some commentators on IMDb thought the film was wonderful. "Chacun son gout." On the + side, Meryl Streep proves once again that she is a Protean actor who can really sing. Is there NO role this woman cannot play?

A totally romantic getaway flick. Four REASONS why many IMDb males don't seem to like it are: 1) Both Debra Messing and the actress portraying her sister are flat-chested. 2) None of the IMDb male reviewers look like Dermot--omigod, that scene where he pushes her back against the car and whispers reassurances to her cheek and neck without kissing her--whew!! My plasma screen was smoking at the edges. Take some lessons, guys, and watch this flick--his facial expressions, his wardrobe, his muscles, his eye movements, how he interacts with other males...try it, it works.... #3) If they've gotten to England, they haven't ventured beyond London. #4) They prefer "My Big Fat Redneck Wedding" on TV to this gem. #5) Guys who dislike this flick probably prefer to see sheriffs and cops getting humiliated, cars getting blown up, brainless broads with great bodies, brainy guys looking stupid, beer drinkers throwing up, and other adolescent-male preferences which dominate our local multiplex.

Apologies if someone else has commented on this aspect of the film, but I don't feel like parsing through 42 pages of commentary. Two things come to mind. First, I had always naively thought that the purpose of dialogue in a film, with the exception of Robert Altman's work, was to keep the viewer abreast of what has happened, what is happening and what might happen. Not in TGS. OK, I can deal with the garbled dialogue of Wilson's son and his lover--it's a spy tape. But the film is maddening in that 60% of the CRITICAL dialogue is whispered through clenched teeth, and the other 40% occurs while Whiffenpoofs are singing or a band is playing--you get the idea. I've sat through this film twice now, once on rented DVD, once broadcast by a movie channel, and thus could kick up the volume in a desperate attempt to figure out what's being said, not being a lipreader myself. But DeNiro's incessant use of background noise only makes the raised volume more of a problem. Yes, yes, I know that in real life, humans talk over all kinds of noise, but LIVE DISCUSSION IS NOT A SOUND TRACK. A sound track is there to further plot or character development. Secondly, if you doubt that privileged Ivy League fellows really don't cavort in mud while being peed on, or dress up like women, or presume to know how to run the country better than the rest of us peons, I got a bridge I wanna sell you.