"Here's Madonna, 'I'm Eva Peron, love me'. Here's me, 'Go to fuck'"
A musical. A musical that's been done more times than Monica.
A singer. A singer that's been through more personality changes than your average acid flashback bothered Vietnam Veteran.
Throw in an Italian who can't sing, pretending to be Argentinian who can, and you have Evita.If you read any more into this abhorrent waste of cash, then you're either a wanna-be film snob, a fan of Madonna or you should check into the Betty Ford, toot suite.
Evita, the story of Eva Peron - Argentina's 'mother' and basically a woman who fucked her way to the top, and then bought nice dresses while Rome burned - is also am adaption of the musical stage-play. And it shows.
There are only two things stopping you from walking out of the theatre early.
The first is Madonna's ever-changing wardrobe. Every scene a new gown. Whoop dee dick.
The second thing is the question of whether any of the mashed potatoes I thought were in Antonio's mouth would spray onto the ornate floor during his vocals. The mashed potatoes didn't actually exist, but it sure sounded like it.Rousing pile of shit, and if you think otherwise you should adjust your set.