Mamma Mia

Jukebox musicals have a largely deserved reputation for lousiness. But just because We Will Rock You and Oh What A Night shrivelled your balls, doesn’t mean that the idea is inherently awful. After all, they used to do revues and shows based around songwriters back-catalogues a lot 'back in the day'.

Mamma Mia is the reason that people still keep trying. I have seen the stage production twice (once in Dublin and once in London) and I maintain that the reason it works so perfectly as a night’s entertainment is not just because of the joy in ABBA’s music, but because it’s a rare modern example of a genuinely well-written book. Catherine Johnson’s script is funny, sweet and consistently engaging. It's more than a simple bridge between some fantastic pop tunes – it provides a well-structured plot and thoroughly entertaining characters all grounded by some surprisingly poignant inter-generational conflicts. In particular, I have heard lots of mothers and daughters talk about how the show affects them.

Between the undeniable skill in its book and score and a suitably cinematic setting on a sun-kissed Greek island, you would have to work really hard to fuck Mamma Mia up for the screen. Step forward director Phyllida Lloyd who, casting aside, seems to have made about as many wrong decisions as is possible. She almost destroys the entire production and in some instances, hangs her eminently game cast completely out to dry.

This is an ugly, badly choreographed mess. Lloyd, who did a superb job on the original stage production, simply has no idea how to shoot a movie and this should be the final word for any stage production which insists on using the original director to jump into a new medium. A quick example of this is her use of Green villagers as a 'chorus' (think Irene and the Pappas). On stage, this is a funny theatrical conceit. On film, its a horribly misjudgement that undercuits any genuine emotional engagement. While the film improves markedly towards the end, Lloyd destroys the momentum of the opening hour with one incompetent music sequences after another.

And yet, despite this, she can’t completely ruin the spirit of this show. She does, at least, get props for canny casting. Streep has garnered weirdly mixed reviews for the film and I can see why. It’s a schizophrenic performance, all twittery girlish mannerisms in the first half before she settles down and completely sells the more emotional aspects of the piece (while I won’t give her a nomination for her work, her rendition of The Winner Takes it All and Slipping Through my Fingers are superb). The rest of the cast are filled with scene-stealing pros who all do OK work – but Lloyd conveys no real sense of a consistent tone to the actors and thus there is a weird OTT quality to lots of the scenes.

Two actors in particular deserve highlighting;

1. Pierce Brosnan should be ashamed of his work here. As an actor, he is dull and lifeless but as a singer he is atrocious. He is badly upstaged by Meryl during SOS.
2. Amanda Seyfriend as Meryl’s daughter gives the best, most consistent performance in the entire film. Her vocals are beautiful, and she sells every moment with complete conviction. It probably helps that she doesn’t have one truly embarrassing staging moment in the film. I adored Seyfriend in Mean Girls but this showcases her abilities as a leading lady and she proves herself up to the challenge.

Something Scary in The Mist

I am on a bit of a Stephen King binge at the moment. I am an enormous fan of his wry, warm-hearted memoir/How-To-Guice On Writing, and so far I have read The Shining, The Stand and am mid-way through It. The guy had genius in him. More on that later...

I had the dubious pleasure of seeing Frank Darabont's adaptation of King's The Mist last week. I say dubious because I can't remember the last time I saw a more depressing, gut-wrenching horror film. Seriously, its like Darabont felt he had to karmically balance out the glorious, life affirming hope of Shawshank Redemption with something clammy and oppresive.

Job done, I would say.

The Mist is a solid, often thrilling B movie that develops into a pitch-black morality tale. It's well acted by a large, sort-of-recognisable ensemble and shot with verve using largely hand-held cameras. The monster effects are variable, but it somehow fits in with the low tech feel of the whole film and occasionally, Darabont manages a hauntingly beautiful shot (I am thinking especially of the views od the larger monsters through the mist near the end of the film). This is a deliciously bloody film, with one sequence with killer spiders which is very effective.

But the scariest thing in the entire film is the performance of Marcia Gay Harden as the religious nut job Mrs Carmody who is convinced The End is Nigh. Harden is frighteningly committed in the role - its one of those go for broke performances which could fall flat but she ratches the tension up expertly. When she occasionally gives you glimpses of her real psychosis (via some truly inspired line readings) its more frightening than any number of scaly tentacles. Like most genre fair, its not the type of thing which wins awards, but its one that has stuck with me.

And the end... Oh My Flying Spaghetti Monster... There really aren't any words to describe how bleak the ending is. It works perfectly in context, but I can't imagine it would inspire too many repeat viewings. However, this will be a definite DVD buy for me.

What Makes Me

I guess this post follows on nicely from what I said before. Last night John Barrowman hosted an episode of The Making of Me where he explored some of the environmental or biological theories for homosexuality. Barrowman made for an engaging, sweet if slightly over-eager host and the programme itself was an entertaining trip through some of the more fringe theories out there (the whole index finger/ring finger thing seemed bizarre!).

Ultimately, though the programme tried to give some sort of an answer, it’s clear that there isn’t much firm ground in this debate. There might be a gay gene, but nobody has managed to find it (Sven, the scientist who tested Barrowman’s genes was pant-wettingly sexy!). Hormones may play a part (especially testosterone) but the studies are still at an early stage). There was lots of talk about brain structures which seemed quite spot on if I was thinking about my own situation but didn’t seem to match up so well when I thought about my other gay friends.

As I said above, this search for the determining biological root for homosexuality is something I am not really all that thrilled with. If they find a cause then its possible they could find a cure. Maybe a nice pill or shot which will 'normalise' the hormonal balance in the womb, or stop a gene from developing.


But that John Barrowman is certainly a cutie!