The plot, comprised of improbable joins and verbal contortions, exists solely to shoehorn as many Big Hits as possible. For no apparent reason, thinly realised characters will refer to each other as ‘Chiquitita’ or ‘Honey, Honey’ before launching into three minutes of heavenly Swedish pop.
We might turn a blind eye to these structural shenanigans if the film made more effort to justify its move to the big screen. Despite occasional shots of Lovely Greek Scenery, Mamma Mia, like The Producers before it, sticks with The Director Of The Original Production. It’s a noble sentiment and by golly Phyllida Lloyd can bang together a storming musical number. But the mise en scene? Forget about it.
The casting is equally erratic. Meryl’s voice may lack the sweetness of Frida’s – let alone Agnetha’s – but she invests even the most throwaway scenes with awesome acting chops and deep Cher-rific tones. If only the same could be said of her co-stars. Colin Firth produces a drippy nasal whine. Amanda Seyfried is merely adequate. And poor Pierce Brosnan can only muster what sounds like a barnyard holocaust. Who could have known the most velvety sounding Bond could curdle the milk in your coffee with his singing?
You know what? None of this matters a jot. If anything, the inadequate vocal performances and loose plotting adds to the festivities by preserving the karaoke feel of the source material. When you get right down to it, this musical extravaganza has magic where it matters. It has something even better than good songs. It has good ABBA songs. It can’t fail. It doesn’t.