Confused Reviews: Mamma Mia

Mamma Mia shocked sane, bearable people all over the county last year by becoming the most financially successful film ever released in the UK. Cries of “But it’s shit!” fell on deaf ears as millions upon millions of pounds were spent on tickets to see it. Your mum, all of your mum’s friends and any teenage girls in your family all flocked to see it, sneaking a bottle of wine into the cinema, those crafty devils. Plus they dragged your dad to see it too, and he came back telling you that, so long as you’re willing to get into the spirit of it, it’s not so bad.

I found it all quite baffling. None the less, I had a review to write and so I went to the cinema and slapped my cash down on the counter. It’s here that my movie-going experience started.

Immediately after taking payment for the film, the guy working the ticket booth proceeded to punch me repeatedly in the face. I managed to stagger away, only to be tackled to the floor by a young work experience kid, who delivered elbow after elbow to my skull.

I got myself up and headed over to the refreshments stand and ordered a large popcorn. The woman behind the counter called me in close, then launched a handful of salt into my eyes. Temporarily blinded, I felt an immense pain on the side of my face. She was cooking my face with hotdogs. I managed to grapple myself away and found my way to the men’s toilets, where I washed the salt from my eyes.

I then went to the ticket check, where they pulled me over to one side and then bundled me into a dark room. I was strapped to a chair and kept awake for several days, being given no food or water. They regularly beat me, drew a moustache on my face and made me watch nil-nil draws that Tottenham Hotspurs had been involved in, on repeat. I developed a rancid smell as I became covered in my own urine and faeces, yet they refused to let me wash.

I was then taken through to a crudely assembled surgery theatre, where they cut off my feet with a hacksaw. Truth be told, it bloody hurt. Then they wheeled me into their staffroom, where cinema staff took turns at laughing at me and calling me Stumpy Joe or Hop-along Harry. Sometimes even Norah No-Feet.

They removed all of my teeth with the toy pliers you get with that game, Crocodile Dentist, which was nearly as painful as going to see my actual dentist. I was subsequently forced to gargle with vinegar.

Then I was subjected to nine hours of dramatised readings from the Ain’t It Cool News talkback sections. I was ready to die. Finally they had Peter Kay come in and tell me a series of hilarious anecdotes about how nan’s are from a different generation to us which causes social differences, whilst he kicked me in the testicles, again and again.

Finally, I was dragged by my hair to screen 3 and placed in my seat, which was on fire. Mamma Mia then started, which was such an unspeakably horrific experience I can’t bring myself to talk about it.

However, money talks. Clearly, as it has made so much money, Mamma Mia is the best film ever made. I’d give it 5 out of 5, but I’d give myself 1 out of 5 for being a terrible audience member who refused to get into the spirit of it. I’m just not into camp musicals based around songs so bad they make you want to cheese-grater your own ears off. It’s clearly me that’s the problem.

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