Music by Benny Andersson and Bjorn Ulvaeus

Book by Catherine Johnson

Directed by Phyllida Lloyd

Review by Dominic Corr

Edinburgh Playhouse

ABBA, abs, and absolute chaos — but sung with the precision of a Swiss watch: there’s a particular kind of madness that descends upon the Edinburgh Playhouse whenever Mamma Mia! rolls into town. A sort of festive delirium where grown adults in sequins lose all sense of space or time and embrace that inner Dancing Queen. And honestly? Fair play. Because this latest touring cast delivers vocals so blisteringly good, they could probably drown out the lot of them.

At its core, Mamma Mia! remains a gloriously daft but irresistibly effective musical built around ABBA’s back catalogue, stitching together its sun‑drenched tale with the kind of melodic confidence only global pop hits can provide. The plot (yup, there is one) Sophie’s well‑intentioned but ill‑advised quest to identify her father by inviting three unsuspecting candidates to her wedding — is really just the scaffolding on which the songs hang, a breezy excuse to propel us from one glitter‑soaked number to the next. What matters here is momentum: the way the music drives the emotional beats, the way the ensemble folds seamlessly into each transition, and the way the show leans into its own absurdity with a wink rather than an apology.

Kicking Streep to the curb, Jenn Griffin storms the stage as Donna Sheridan with the energy of a woman who has absolutely no time for your nonsense. Griffin doesn’t just sing — she detonates. The Winner Takes It All becomes less a torch song and more a controlled explosion, the kind that leaves scorch marks on the back row. It’s a performance with teeth, grit, and enough vocal wattage to power the Christmas lights on Princes Street. They’re a fair match with Lydia Hunt’s Sophie, the sort of performer who tricks you into thinking the role is easy. It isn’t. Those clean, bright vocals? That’s technique disguised as breeziness. Hunt threads the needle between earnest ingénue and exasperated daughter with a deftness that keeps the character from dissolving into pure plot function.

But the real heroes of the story are Donna’s partners in crime: Rosie Glossop and Marisa Harris playing Rosie and Tanya; a double‑act so finely tuned they could take this show on the road as a comedy duo and no one would complain. Earnshaw’s Tanya struts about like she’s personally keeping Botox in business, but their choreography matches that of the back dancers, while Glossop’s Rosie is the human embodiment of a raised eyebrow. Their harmonies are tight, their timing tighter, and their commitment to the bit absolute.

Right folks. The dads; Luke Jasztal, Richard Meek, and Mark Goldthorp, all bring charm, warmth, and just enough chaos to keep things interesting. Answering for Brosnon’s silver-sins, Jasztal gives Sam a sincerity that almost makes the plot make sense (a heroic feat), while Meek leans into Harry’s awkward sweetness without turning him into a caricature, and Goldthorp’s Bill is the sort of man who would absolutely get lost on a Greek island and insist he meant to for the ‘experience’.

Creatively, the show remains the same well‑oiled ABBA machine it has been for decades. Phyllida Lloyd’s direction keeps the pace brisk, Anthony van Laast’s choreography injects just enough camp to keep the blood pumping, and Mark Thompson’s set continues to prove that if you paint something white and shine a blue light on it, audiences will believe it’s Greece. Howard Harrison’s lighting does the heavy lifting, conjuring sunsets, discos, and emotional breakdowns with equal flair – when it floods the stage, these white walls sing with colour: and make any Christmas tree look subtle.

But let’s not pretend it’s flawless. The set, iconic though it is, occasionally feels like it’s been borrowed from a minimalist IKEA showroom and feels a touch lacklustre for such strong vocals. Some transitions clunk along, and the comedy — while often entertaining — sometimes veers into panto territory inadvertently, which is either a feature or a bug depending on how many gins you’ve had. The singing is what elevates this production from fun night out to a level of professionalism, but the more plot-focused singing might lose some who are familiar with the emotion-forward soundtrack of the film version. Every harmony is crisp, every belt is confident, and the ensemble sound is so tight it could cut glass. It’s the professionalism — the sheer vocal discipline — that keeps the whole glitter‑soaked contraption from tipping into chaos.

By the time the finale kicks in, Lycra shimmering, audience on their feet, dignity long abandoned, you realise the truth: Mamma Mia! endures because performers like this refuse to phone it in. They give it welly. They give it heart. They give it everything. A vocally electric, joy‑fuelled extravaganza that proves professionalism and pure camp can, in fact, be best pals. Bring your dancing shoes and your emotional resilience.

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