Mamma Mia!

Friday night, I called home and asked Mom to ask Dad to buy tickets for the movie because it was opening night and I thought it would sell-out. I convinced myself that he likes to be sent on little errands because he can never sit still, and, actually, there’s some truth to it.

Turns out he didn’t want to go and bought only two tickets for the show. “You can take your mother,” he said, preparing for a quiet evening at home with television - a television movie or Bloomberg or something like that.

Mom and I got to the theater minutes before the movie began because I came home late from work, forgetting that while buying tickets gets you in the theater, it doesn’t save you a seat.  So, when Mom and I entered the theater, it was full and we couldn’t find a place to sit. “We’re screwed,” I said while standing in the back of the theater scanning for seats, loud enough to get a surprised and disapproving stare from a woman next to me. Mom asked an usher to find us seats, who very kindly did, up front, but not too close, which was just perfect.

Mom loved the movie. “I’ll take K— to see it,” she said, speaking of her grand-daughter and my niece. I agreed, K— will love it. I had a good time, myself, smiling at the music, the Greek Island colors and the sunlight, and at Meryl Streep! Having such a good time, a revelation on the screen, jumping up and down on a bed while seeming to hang in midair, all to the music of Dancing Queen. I thought she looked absolutely beautiful – crinkly lines around the eyes and mouth, complexion milky under a sun-kissed reddish nose and golden hair lit from above, behind, and seemingly, within.  Oh, they were all having a good time up there on the screen, and down in the audience, too. People in the theater were laughing and clapping and singing to the music. A reviewer said the movie was very Bollywood, and it was. Bollywood in the way Bollywood is so very present, so in the moment, in it’s color and abandon, so you forget everything else that exists while you are watching. Which is the point, really.