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I just read a review of Mamma Mia by a real heavyweight from Variety which made my little piece look like over-enthusiastic …. and ignorant … fluff. Well that’s just fine and dandy and it’s easy to see why I’ll never be invited to write for them.

And technically it’s a damn fine piece of reviewing. Technically. However, while in terms of providing proper feedback for a body of work it’s exemplary, I feel it got kind of too tied up in the detail and not enough in the whole package … and that’s the point.

Yeah, once they were pointed out I could see the endemic weaknesses of the movie, but I still maintain that my response to it was one of pure enjoyment, and with two billion dollars worth of box office sales for the musical, I’m clearly not alone.


I loved it. And with good reason.

I’m an ordinary punter looking to be entertained and for that I need a good story and somebody to tell it well. OK, so perhaps it was over edited and over shot and over choreographed and over dubbed, and over everything. It must have been because Variety said it was, but here’s the rub; I don’t care.

For me it was just fun.

It’s not going to change my life. I’m not about to rush off to a Grecian island and take on the running of a hotel. But for a short time when I was trying to find a comfortable way to spend an enforced fourteen hours making like a sardine, I had a brief respite where I was assured that life could be beautiful.

And I have to say that I’m damned grateful.

So I will enjoy the fortunes of Donna and her Dynamos, those fabulous older broads and recommend that if you want a bit of toe-tapping, romantic, life affirming, love promoting escapism, then this is the movie for you.

And let the nabobs of Variety say what they will. They probably wouldn’t enjoy it anyway.

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I’m in my hotel room in Istanbul listening to the traffic - double-glazing notwithstanding (I swear, the motor horns of Istanbul have their own vocabulary … and it isn’t polite), pouring my heart out because I’m here alone and like all the magical cities of the world …. Cuzco, Buenos Aires, Paris … no woman should be here on her own.

It became terribly clear to me as I sat, by myself, on the steps of the Hagia Sophia, having photographed everybody and their dog ... well cat actually (and the odd pigeon) .... and reflected that there was nobody to take a picture of me.

Nobody who wanted to make me smile in that special way. It isn’t the same if you get a stranger to do it, then it’s just a souvenir, I wanted a memory.

So while I took zillions of photos of the place, there isn’t a single image of me.

Anyway, that isn’t what I want to talk about.

Well it is, but in a roundabout way.

Traveling alone sucks. It’s one thing if you’re going to meet up with friends, but going to a place you’ve never been to before and where you don’t even know the language, you need a mate. Ideally you need a bloke.

You need someone to share the moment with, to hold your coat while you fumble in your bag for your glasses, to prevent you from losing them in the first place.

The thing is, while I love airport departure lounges, I don’t travel well. If I’d had a mate with me a couple of years ago, I could have saved my bangles from some covetous gypsies. Equally, with a bloke by my side last year, I might still own my bag, and both my passports.

And I won’t even mention what happened this year.

But I’ve gotta say that Istanbul is worth the trip. Last evening, after a day of muted greys and softened pastels it turned on a sunset which would have had Van Gogh tossing on the colours with a trowel … hell, he’d have been shoveling them on.

And right there in the middle of it all, duking it out with the sun was the Evening Star and boy did that feisty little hussy put on a show.

Like me actually, I'm a feisty little hussy. And I could prove it if I ever put a photo up (after Xiaxue had photo-shopped it first, of course) Xiaxue.

Which is why I just loved Mamma Mia. The stars of the movie are the older women, the (shhh) over fifties who haven’t given up, who get around in sneakers and overalls when they're not tarted up in their stilettos and sarongs, who run crumbling hotels or who've made a career out of divorce (their own); who’ve been around the block a couple of times and have the cellulite to prove it.

Who’ll take off to parts unknown by themselves, because it’s better than sitting at home …. alone.
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Now I know I'm not alone when I tell you exactly what I thought of Mamma Mia. How I know this is simple, the guy sitting next to me on the long haul flight between Sydney to Dubai told me how his Dad was forced to tap the guy in front of him on the shoulder and ask him to stop singing along.

I'm pretty sure I didn't turn the plane into a karaoke bar, however I was so entranced by the movie that it considerably mitigated the stress of fourteen hours aloft without a footstool. I was giggling, chortling, chuckling, strangling belly laughs, wriggling with delight and doing all those exercises to avoid DVTs, and I didn’t even notice.

When Sophie Sheridan decides to find her father to invite him to her wedding on the magical Greek island, she discovers that her Mother had had relationships with three men at the critical time. So which one’s Daddy?

The only way is to meet them all and with DNA calling to DNA, she’d know…. wouldn’t she?

Or she could ask her Mum. But she didn't so it was left for an appalled Donna to find out for herself in one of the funniest and most inventive scenes in a very funny, inventive and often poignant movie.

And the best part is you don't even have to like ABBA. This movie is a little gem, it doesn‘t provide a single excuse to complain. Should be required viewing on all long haul flights.

Director Phyllida Lloyd


Meryl Streep Donna Sheridan
Amanda Seyfried Sophie Sheridan
Stellan Skarsgard Bill Anderson
Colin Firth Harry Bright
Pierce Brosnan Sam Carmichael
Julie Walters Rosie
Christine Baranski Tanya
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