The death of a childhood fantasy...

I just spent the past 45 minutes enduring the pulchritudinous-spewage that is ABBA: The Movie.
I was a child of ABBA. I cut my teeth on their album. I wasthat girl , I did dig it. So with all the recent hubbub over Mama Mia I was pleased to see the the quartet had a movie they were actually in. So I turned right to it.

But now. I have to ask myself now, what was I really digging?

This saccharin-sweet, mock-u-mentry is an all out assault on all my sweet dreams of the Swedish foursome. Where my memories we all about best friends, and hair-brush microphones, I am now left with a sensation not too dissimilar from that of
Alex, when he is forced to endure the Ludovico Technique.

Yes, I suppose I could have just "changed the channel," but I was transfixed.
The performances reminded me of something wormholed from the gay 1890's smack to the middle of a cocaine-steeped age of disco. Pure ickiness. Concept performances like "Get on the Carousel" and "I am a Marionette" merged into one horror-show blend of bad back-up, too much tenor, and costumes that, well I just haven't the words to describe the costumes. I will only touch on that with this quote from my husband, who was busy surfing-the-light-fantastic (i.e. internet) when he asked from the kitchen "Are they wearing their homemade costumes?" Nuff said.
My bemoaning was enough to drag my husband into this whirlwind of badness (in the tradition usage of “bad”). As we watched this, ice-cream social gone awry, we realized that ABBA, is the yin to KISS's yang. They should have toured together.