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Florence Foster Jenkins. (PG.)
Directed by Stephen Frears.
Starring Meryl Streep, Hugh Grant, Simon Helberg, Rebecca Ferguson, Nina Arianda and David Haig. 110 mins
This is a Meryl Streep film about a bad singer; like Mamma Mia but with Streep in the Pierce Brosnan role. In 1944 New York, Jenkins (Streep) was a wealthy society lady who, alongside her British thespian husband St Clair Bayfield (Grant), was a vigorous patron of the musical arts. She also sang, hilariously badly in concerts for all her insufferable theatre types friends who sychophantically told her she was simply marvellous.
Theirs is a strange marriage, with Bayfield slippping off each evening to the flat he shares with his lover (Ferguson.) But he is devoted to FFJ, and carefully manages her musical career, trying to ensure that nothing penetrates her fantasy of being a great singer, insisting that tickets for her performances be sold only to “music lovers.” He also spends his time warily on the watch out for other people trying to slip their way into her affections, and her will.
The film maintains a fine balance of frivolous poignancy: it's funny while being sympathetic to the delusions and desperate calculations the characters make. In the film Jenkin's devotion to singing is presented as an expression of her deep love for music but the film could just as easily be seen as conformation that high arts, your theatre and opera, is a great big self sustaining racket where well connected mediocrity is elevated by the influece of rich patrons. In this way Florence is both Saatchi and Tracy Emin.
Padded up to rememble to Dame Edith Evans and Margaret Dumont, Streep is a hoot in the main role but it is Grant's film. Initially his character was rather ambiguous but after test screenings the film was rejigged to make him more sympathetic and I'd guess it works much better this way; Grant doesn't need to have it spelt out, after all those years in romcoms he is able to convey the wincing compromises of his character effortlessly. The script has him say “I was a good actor but I was never going to be a great actor,” but when he taps into his dark side, he is terrific. His Bayfield is a magnificent study in conscientious, heartfelt poncing.
Florence Foster Jenkins. (PG.)
Directed by Stephen Frears.
Starring Meryl Streep, Hugh Grant, Simon Helberg, Rebecca Ferguson, Nina Arianda and David Haig. 110 mins
This is a Meryl Streep film about a bad singer; like Mamma Mia but with Streep in the Pierce Brosnan role. In 1944 New York, Jenkins (Streep) was a wealthy society lady who, alongside her British thespian husband St Clair Bayfield (Grant), was a vigorous patron of the musical arts. She also sang, hilariously badly in concerts for all her insufferable theatre types friends who sychophantically told her she was simply marvellous.
Theirs is a strange marriage, with Bayfield slippping off each evening to the flat he shares with his lover (Ferguson.) But he is devoted to FFJ, and carefully manages her musical career, trying to ensure that nothing penetrates her fantasy of being a great singer, insisting that tickets for her performances be sold only to “music lovers.” He also spends his time warily on the watch out for other people trying to slip their way into her affections, and her will.
The film maintains a fine balance of frivolous poignancy: it's funny while being sympathetic to the delusions and desperate calculations the characters make. In the film Jenkin's devotion to singing is presented as an expression of her deep love for music but the film could just as easily be seen as conformation that high arts, your theatre and opera, is a great big self sustaining racket where well connected mediocrity is elevated by the influece of rich patrons. In this way Florence is both Saatchi and Tracy Emin.
Padded up to rememble to Dame Edith Evans and Margaret Dumont, Streep is a hoot in the main role but it is Grant's film. Initially his character was rather ambiguous but after test screenings the film was rejigged to make him more sympathetic and I'd guess it works much better this way; Grant doesn't need to have it spelt out, after all those years in romcoms he is able to convey the wincing compromises of his character effortlessly. The script has him say “I was a good actor but I was never going to be a great actor,” but when he taps into his dark side, he is terrific. His Bayfield is a magnificent study in conscientious, heartfelt poncing.
