If you were to do a house-to-house search in your neighbourhood, assuming you live in Britain, you’d discover that fully a quarter of homes have a copy of Mamma Mia! The Musical on DVD. The film’s staggering success is built on the equally humungous record it had in theatres worldwide, where it was brought to the stage by producer Judy Craymer, writer Catherine Johnson, and director Phyllida Lloyd.

Mamma Mia! was and is Judy Craymer’s brainchild. She’d worked for Tim Rice for some years, and had a gut feeling that a musical based on the songs of Abba would be a big hit. Fortunately, she got to meet Abba’s songwriters through their contributions to the Tim Rice show Chess, and with their backing went on to assemble the team that created the hit stage show. Not only that, she held onto the same team when Hollywood came knocking at her door wanting to do a screen version, not prepared to do a deal that didn’t include the people she’d brought to the table.

I know all this, incidentally, not through any particular interest in the works of Abba — though they surely do have a way with a tune — but because I watched a documentary on Mamma Mia! last night on Channel 5. What fascinated me was Judy Craymer’s tenacity in making the show, then the film, happen. It’s a given that the story is perfunctory, a means of holding together the Abba songs that are the real reason that an audience has gathered. And I say that hopefully without condescension — the writing in this instance had to be within carefully designed parameters. As such, I’d treat a commission along similar lines (perhaps based on the work of Half Man Half Biscuit) more like I do writing a corporate video script than a screenplay: a job of work rather than something more personal. But still to be done to the best of my ability, and with pride.

All of which raises the interesting question of the distinction between art and entertainment, if indeed such a distinction can be drawn. Music producer Pete Waterman was banging the drum for Mamma Mia! and noting that it’s a film you can see, enjoy hugely while singing along, and then pretty much forget. Well, until some friends or relatives pop over and need to be shown the DVD anyway.

And sure enough, there’s a place for disposable fun. Soap opera is an ephemeral form, providing an emotional connection that’s put aside until next episode. But without soap, would we have had shows like The Sopranos and Six Feet Under? Similarly, pulp magazines were used as padding for packing crates coming over from America, but where would comics writer Ed Brubaker be without their influence on his own sophisticated works, Criminal, Incognito, and Sleeper?

Pop culture’s base metals sometimes prove to be gold, at least in retrospect, and are often used as the inspiration for more ambitious creations. Without pianists playing honkytonk in New Orleans brothels, there’d be no Miles Davis or John Coltrane. No Flash Gordon serial to reach for the stars, and maybe Kubrick wouldn’t have given us 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Which makes me wonder what of today’s apparent junk will prove to be inspiration for mature work in the future. Can something inspirational evolve from Japanese collectable card games? Will composers with serious intentions create ringtones? Can Twitter give rise to a 21st century take on the haiku?

These are valid questions, and interesting ones to ask when some commentators are decrying the emptiness of modern culture. Personally, I’ve always viewed such critiques as bunkum, but rather than do that as a reflex action, consider what could be done if the time and resources that went into creating spam and negativity went into saying or doing something new. And if new is too much of a challenge, one that’s just as great is to say something old in an unexpected way.