Having read Anthony Lane's review of Mamma Mia for the New Yorker, I approached this film with appropriately low expectations. I knew everyone was going to have orange skin. I knew the actors would not be doing very graceful or interesting things while they sang. I knew the film was just a vehicle for ABBA songs, which meant that it was going to have a thin, contrived plot--and that was fine with me. Like virtually every other viewer who has chipped in to the financial success of this film and the Broadway musical it was based on, I was only watching it for the ABBA anyway. It would be nostalgic, it would be peppy, it would be fun. I'd get to enjoy the pleasure of anticipation--"Oh, I know what song is coming here!"--or, alternatively, the laughter of surprised recognition when the actors launched into a song I hadn't seen coming.
In the end, I didn't even get that. It was clear within five minutes that this film was going to be excruciatingly overacted. The loud cackling laughter, the slapstick, the spastic dancing, the needless acrobatics (hanging and falling off of roofs). Certain leading actors' inability to sing, which made it hard to enjoy the music. I give the creators credit for incorporating songs into the storyline in, let's say moderately clever ways. But watching how poorly acted and choreographed this movie was, I thought: Is the problem that the people making this film are too embarrassed by the silliness of the premise to take it seriously enough to make it good? You can know that the premise of your film is silly--you can signal to the audience that you know it's silly--but you can still love it enough and pour enough care into it to create a film that's impressively executed and delightful to watch, even heartwarming. Baz Luhrmann has demonstrated that brilliantly with Strictly Ballroom and Moulin Rouge. Perhaps Luhrmann could have made this film enjoyable. As is, I'd have gotten more enjoyment from just putting on my headphones and popping ABBA Gold into my CD player.
