| THE NAME OF THE GAME : A 'MAMMA MIA!' / 'PUFFBALL' DOUBLE-HEADER by S.Seacroft |
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 You might call Saturday, the 6th of September 2008 my 'Mothering Saturday.' That was the day when unknowable forces decreed that I should see two films centred on motherhood: from conception, to middle-aged letting-go, in reverse order. First up: Mamma Mia! The feeling that I was the only woman left in England who hadn't seen this film at least twice had for a while lurked within my maternal bosom... but was it a source of pride, or a betrayal of my gender? Whatever. After receiving the urgings-on of a normally sensible friend - after her third visit (with more perhaps to come) - that the movie was the ultimate Prozac, and after meeting a fellow MM 'virgin' the day before, the pair of us vowed to give ourselves exposure to this phenomenon in full "gal-pal" mode, and sought out a nearby screening. A relatively far-off cinema was offering a "singalong" version, but we felt a bit panicky at this prospect - and instead opted for our local, the 'Blue Room' in Durham's Gala Cinema: small, familiar, and without the potential hazard of aisles (for dancing therein.) Having battled through wind and rain on one of the wettest days of the year, we dosed ourselves with (prophylactic) glasses of wine and took our seats - around us women of all ages, plus children and an unexpected row of lads - sat in docile calm. Animated is a term I would not use for this audience, though many had clearly seen it before and so muttered a bit along with some of the dialogue. Laughter ensued, but no singing, no dancing. Indeed, most 'steam' seemed to be raised at the sight of Stellan Skarsgard's bare tattooed buttocks beneath his pinny-straps. But, then again, this is Durham. For some reason I always feel vaguely embarrassed at the start of a musical. If it happens to be a good one (Guys and Dolls, Cabaret, anything involving Fred Astaire or Busby Berkeley) this embarrassment wears off imperceptibly over the first five minutes and I'm "in there." If not, I sit in sticky unease throughout, in eager anticipation of the finale. Mamma Mia! was a classic instance of 'sticky unease.' The wonderful Meryl Streep (how I long to bounce on a bed like that!) and a couple of the songs - which did seem to actually take off and zing my heart-strings a little - made it bearable, sometimes enjoyable. But how clunky and boring much of it seemed. And, in case Colin Firth happens to be reading this: don't ever sing in public again. At the end of the film, I found myself wondering what on earth all the fuss is about. Mamma Mia! is perfectly OK, good-hearted escapist stuff... a celebration, maybe, of motherhood and middle age. And it looks like they're all having one hell of a good time. But is that enough to explain the hysteria that seems to be sweeping through the womankind of this country? Search me. A few hours later I headed north to Newcastle - partly in thrilled anticipation, partly in fear - to my second 'motherhood-fest': Nic Roeg's new movie Puffball, introduced by the director himself, at the Tyneside Cinema. Thrilled anticipation, because Roeg directed what to my mind is one of the best British films ever, Don't Look Now. Fear because I'd heard bad reports about it, and remembered that many years ago my attempts to read Fay Weldon's original novel had foundered in irritation after a couple of chapters. The usual Tyneside suspects pour in, clutching their glasses of wine. Predominantly middle-aged, leftish. It's a sell-out. On comes corduroy-betrousered Roeg, gives a charming, tender introduction to the film, complete with paean of praise for the newly refurbished Tyneside, and a word about his battling five-hour journey in the bad weather from London. I am tentatively encouraged. This feeling lasts for about five minutes (not sure why that should be the pivotal moment in so much of my film-watching...), during which we are introduced to the beguiling Irish landscape - complete with sinister/wistful mists. Then the plot kicks in. Architect Liffey (Kelly Reilly) arrives at a house she's renovating in the muddy countryside - helped by her lacklustre boyfriend Richard (Oscar Pearce). But who's that peering malevolently through the bushes like Wee Willie Winkie? Oh God, it's Rita Tushingham, sporting mad eyes and ginger hairpiece (the latter horribly reminiscent of those wig/hat combos worn by Scottish football supporters.) Up the lane lives Mabs (Miranda Richardson) with her three daughters and putupon husband Tucker (William Houston), plus mad granny (R.T.) in the caravan in the yard - shades of Alan Bennett's 'lady in the van.' When Liffey falls inadvertently pregnant, despite boyfriend using a condom, bonkers Mabs decides Liffey has somehow stolen the boy baby she has been trying for. All kinds of would-be-witchery and supernatural fols-de-rol ensue: the eponymous puffballs, which oftimes twinkle with a kind of glowing foetus within; an ancient tumbled standing stone with a hole in it (the Odin Stone - but wouldn't it have a Gaelic name?); flashbacks to a confusing earlier tragedy at the house; hex dolls; old shoes hidden in the cellar; and the most horrible potions, made of unspeakable ingredients (including the contents of the aforementioned Durex) quaffed as dinner wine. ‘Tastes funny...' notes Tucker, 'tucking' in. There's lots of very dodgy obstetric stuff, and the sex is mostly nasty, brutish and short, with too many shots of thrusting buttocks - and, something new in film I believe, intra-vaginal views of sexual congress. Hmm. Poor Kelly Reilly, whom I'd seen covered in blood and mud, and harassed by weird yokel-locals only four days earlier in new Brit-shocker Eden Lake, goes through it all again - this time with the wafty disengagement of a haughty model tempered with occasional potion-fuelled sexual voracity. Miranda Richardson does her dotty thing, and Tina Kellegher as her sister gives us a malevolent version of Mrs Doyle from Father Ted. Those mad Oirish, don't ya just love'em! A little ray of sunlight comes in the ever-welcome form of Donald Sutherland as Liffey's architect-mentor, dropping in to spout the odd philosophical aperçu ("You must keep separate what you do from what you want to be") with a quizzical smile to let on he kind-of knows he's talking bollocks. Reaction at the Tyneside: some laughter at the most preposterous stuff, but mostly silence (I imagine that from the screen we would have looked like the audience in The Producers, frozen-faced with jaws dropped onto chests). However - no-one walked out, and quite a lot of people even clapped at the end. The pregnant woman next to us seemed to have taken it all with equanimity. No Roeg appeared to take questions, rather surprisingly - especially after he'd mentioned coming back afterwards. A merciful absence, though: what could one have asked? Although I'd been inadvertently entertained, and would have liked to laugh out loud at times (they should have a 'laughalong' version, it would do well), my predominant feelings were sadness that a once great director has "lost it". 'It' being the ability to do narrative, character, sex, suspense - all things of which he was such a master. A sombre, exasperated end to my "mother's day." Mamma mia, indeed! Sheila Seacroft 6th September, 2008 MAMMA MIA! : [6/10] : UK (UK/US/Ger) 2008 : Phyllida Lloyd : 109 mins (BBFC timing) : Jigsaw Lounge review by N.Young PUFFBALL : [2/10] : UK/Ireland (UK/Ire/Can) 2007 : Nicolas Roeg : 120 mins (BBFC timing) |
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