Haven't you ever wanted to sing your way up a hill of Greek steps?
Gotcha. Movie
critics around the country have been caught saying they would rather be dead
than enjoy “Mama Mia.” In one cynical voice they have hedged their egos to
separate themselves from the crowd that loves the Broadway play and the movie.
After protecting themselves by rejecting the movie, a few then admit they
enjoyed themselves in spite of their requisite pre-judgments. It would never do
for a critic to be part of a crowd.
What’s up
there on the screen? For the first while, confusion. Are we in the ‘50s? On
Broadway? In a school musical? Are we put off by the sight of performers
breaking spontaneously into song? Sure. Are big cast musical numbers
embarrassingly cute? Not really, because here’s what happens: when the audience
finally absorbs the cast’s sense of fun, the mood in the theater shifts to one
of delight. There is an audible impulse among them of wanting to get up, right
there in the aisles and join the chorus. In some kind of a tacit collective
acceptance, the audience relaxes and laughter rolls through the theater; it is
laughter not of mockery but of appreciation.
There is no
mistaking the enthusiasm and pleasure of the old pros who cavort through this
movie in what is surely an improbable, nearly inconceivable, piece of casting.
An ex-hippie (Meryl Streep) is giving a wedding for her daughter (Amanda
Seyfried) on a Greek island where she runs a broken down inn. The daughter has
secretly invited three of mom’s old boyfriends in an effort to determine which
of them is her father (Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth, Stellan Skarsgard.) Mom’s
contribution is the arrival of her two best friends (Julie Walters and Christine
Baranski).
The fun, and
believe me, there is fun to be had, lies in the spectacle of six serious A list
actors cutting loose against type. Is this really Pierce Brosnan, our
sophisticated James Bond, bursting into song in the middle of a sentence? Is
this he, staring melodramatically out to sea while Streep explains herself in
song? Colin Firth, Mr. Darcy of all people, dancing in tights? Stellen
Skarsgaard, bare bottomed on his boat? Aware that they may be tampering with
their images, the men are clearly more uncomfortable than the women; but that
only adds to the fun for the audience that appreciates their willingness to take
the risk.
Streep,
Walters, and Baranski seem to be on the perfect busman’s holiday, loving every
minute of playing to the fantasies of the audience. Haven’t you always wanted to
sing your way up a steep hill of Greek steps? Or jump on a bed with a former
lover? Or dance down the middle of a long table? Streep will make you want to
sing; Walters, who nearly steals the whole show, will make you want to dance; so
be one of the crowd this time. And don’t even think of leaving before the
credits roll. Critics, stay home.
Copyright (c) Illusion