mamma mia

The decision isn’t made easily. Wait 45 minutes on my own for the next decent movie to begin or nip into the one that is just starting. You may think it’s simple. Until you understand that the movie I consider slipping into is Mamma Mia and I loathe Abba. Not dislike or prefer not to listen to, but detest. The sound of Dancing Queen makes my blood run cold and I’m reminded of just how much of a rock-chick I am at heart. But how bad could a movie be? I mean, musicals are fun, right? So, in a moment of what can only be deemed temporary insanity, I hear myself saying the words ‘One ticket for the 17:15 showing of Mamma Mia please.’ I recall that moment now with disbelief.
Walking into the darkened cinema I hover at the door while my eyes adjust. ‘I have a dream…’ Abba songs already?? Not even one minute in! Oh boy…
I spot two empty seats obstructed by a couple of ladies who are…uuhhmm…well-built. ‘Excuse me, sorry…oh that’s your foot…very sorry…’ I’m not getting out of this seat in a hurry, that’s for sure.
From the moment Meryl Streep frumps onto the screen with her scraggly blonde hair and toddler dungarees I regret getting out of bed, let alone walking into the cinema. One Abba classic after another hits me like a baseball bat to the shins and I can feel a guttural scream longing to burst forth from my lungs as my insides twist and my toes curl. I have a habit of biting my lip when I’m stressed and after 15 minutes I think I’ve started to draw blood.After half an hour I decide that I will surely lose what sanity I have in tact if I stay to the end so I look to make a bolt for it. Then I remember the struggle getting into this seat and the ‘tut-tuts’ from my disgruntled fellow patrons and I consider that the wrath of an Abba fan may be decidedly worse than their songs. So I’m stuck for the long haul.
I endure scenes of an entire village dancing on a jetty to Money, Money, Money. There are grown men doing pliés in flippers. Middle-aged women are dressed in flares while strutting about to Super Trouper. Emotions are high as Meryl dashes up a thousand step stairway, red scarf flailing in the wind, while serenading Pierce Brosnan with Winner Takes it All.
How much can one Abba loather really take? One and a half hours apparently.
I am released from my Cineworld, minimal legroom prison when the lady on my left decides that she has indulged in enough Abbamania for one day.
What I take away from my experience is this: you can be as anti-Abba as you want but it is everywhere. I make a point of abandoning the dance floor when an Abba classic comes on or grunting my distaste if one of their songs is played on the radio or in the supermarket. But despite my aversion to the Swedish Eurovision Song Contest-winning pop group I still knew most of the words to the songs in the movie. This is not out of choice but because their songs have been forced upon me by a culture that needs to reconsider it’s taste in music. Mamma mia…