Mamma Mia!

Anyone who has read some of my reviews probably already knows that I have a problem with musicals.

I simply cannot deal with them.

This is not about prestige, tradition or historical importance. I know perfectly well that musical theatre has produced major works, that Broadway has filled theatres for decades, and that Mamma Mia! was already a huge phenomenon before becoming a film.

It makes no difference to me.

I have never gone to a musical in Madrid or New York for a very simple reason:

I do not like them.

There is something about the basic mechanism of the genre that immediately pushes me away. Two characters are talking, something happens and suddenly one of them starts singing.

Then somebody else joins in.

Then everyone dances.

And the entire fictional world accepts this as a completely natural continuation of the conversation.

I cannot.

And Mamma Mia! makes that mechanism its entire reason for existing.

Phyllida Lloyd's film adapts a stage musical constructed around ABBA songs, so criticizing it for doing exactly that would obviously be pointless. The additional problem is that ABBA have never appealed to me either.

Their music bores me.

Combining one of the genres I enjoy least with a band I have never particularly wanted to hear was therefore probably the worst possible combination.

And that is exactly how it felt.

Almost from the beginning, I wanted the film to end.

The story matters very little because so much of it seems designed primarily to find the next excuse for another song. Characters speak until singing becomes necessary, the number happens, the narrative briefly resumes and preparations begin for the next one.

If you love those songs, I imagine that is the pleasure.

For me, it was exhausting.

What makes the experience slightly strange is that the film contains plenty of elements that should at least be pleasant.

Meryl Streep.

Amanda Seyfried.

Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth and Stellan Skarsgård.

Greek islands.

Sunshine.

Sea.

White houses.

Scenery that could sell a holiday on its own.

Nothing worked for me.

Not even Streep, whose ability as an actress is beyond dispute, can make this universe feel convincing to me. Watching her repeatedly launch into musical numbers only increased my distance from the film.

Pierce Brosnan singing does not exactly help either.

But reducing the problem to vocal ability would be unfair.

My problem begins much earlier.

I do not believe in this world.

I do not accept its rules.

Whenever an emotion that could have been expressed through a look, silence or conversation automatically becomes a song, the film stops speaking to me.

I know that is precisely what musical fans love.

That is the incompatibility.

Mamma Mia! pushes everything toward such permanent brightness and deliberately artificial happiness that it eventually has the opposite effect on me. The harder the film tries to transmit joy, the further away I feel.

Colors.

Choreography.

Smiles.

Songs.

Islands.

Everything is designed to feel euphoric.

I kept checking how much was left.

That probably summarizes my experience better than anything else.

I understand perfectly well why millions of people love the stage show, the movie and ABBA. I do not need to believe they are wrong.

This film was simply made for a viewer who is almost the complete opposite of me.

And unlike some musicals where something else might overcome my resistance to the genre, I found nothing here that could.

The characters did not amuse me.

The story did not interest me.

The songs gave me nothing.

Even the Mediterranean setting could not win me over.

In the end, Mamma Mia! almost became a laboratory demonstration of everything I dislike about musicals.

If someone suddenly starts singing, I am already struggling.

If another person joins in, things get worse.

If every song is ABBA, we are finished.

And most of the movie is still left.