Simon Helberg is the brilliant surprise in this (as Florence’s pianist Cosme McMoon). The affection he shows to Florence, and his defence of her honour, shown in his trademark big blue eyes, is quite touching. Hugh Grant, meanwhile, while almost semi-retired these days, reminds us of the charming affability that originally shot him to stardom. Florence could sing, just not very well, and Streep and Frears are keen to show the awkwardness of her voice, and not just make fun of it. As Florence, Streep is sweet yet determined, and her voice is never so truly awful. In most instances, the idea of putting Meryl Streep, Hugh Grant and The Big Bang Theory’s Simon Helberg together in a film does not make a sound one, but the three of them are perfect together. Florence Foster Jenkins is written by TV writer Nicholas Martin, and considering this is his first feature film I think he has done an incredible job creating such an entertaining and charming story, and one that has stayed so close to the truth. While we can never know what Florence was exactly like, the film is keen on balancing her frailty with her passion for music, and as a character analysis that’s as good a guess as anyone could make. It’s astounding and delightful when a film chooses to adapt the life of a real person, but does not choose to manipulate or rearrange facts to suit the drama of the piece. Whether Bayfield was in fact with his girlfriend Kathleen while Florence was alive I cannot be sure, but he did indeed marry a piano teacher named Kathleen after Florence’s death. Even suggestions that reviews of her work (preceding her famous performance at Carnegie) were written by friends, are brought into the story, with Bayfield bribing local newspapers. Florence’s history, her health, and her relationship with her ‘husband’ Bayfield (played by Hugh Grant) are all accurately portrayed. So it thrills me that this film, as far as I can see, is as close to the truth as one can get. When films purport to be based on a true story I cannot help but gripe when they take a callous attitude toward the origins of their subject matter. So I was keen on seeing Florence Foster Jenkins, but while I thought I’d like it alright, I wasn’t prepared for how thoroughly charming and delightful it would be. I’m a trap for odd stories about interesting people, especially those you could call ‘charmingly eccentric’. So although Florence Foster Jenkins has been promoted widely, it hasn’t been the film on everyone’s lips.īut maybe this silence is for another reason, because in fact how many people know who Florence Foster Jenkins was? The opera singer, with no talent, who amused and entertained many people in 1940’s New York. I think maybe, what with the recent success of The Iron Lady and the confusion over Suffragette (where she was on screen for only a few moments), the media and filmgoers are suffering from a little overindulgence when it comes to one of the world’s greatest actresses. We’d rather go without bread than Mozart,’ she trills, like a modern Marie Antoinette.It’s very easy for the media to get overexcited about a new Meryl Streep film, and one costarring Hugh Grant and directed by Stephen Frears at that, but this time there’s something different. What would her modern equivalent look like? A Russian oligarch’s little princess paying call centres in China to buy her songs on iTunes? But director Stephen Frears sketches out her tragic backstory, and Streep in grande dame mode is not to be missed. You could get a bit sour about ‘Florence Foster Jenkins’. He pampers and fusses over Florence, indulging her every whim (we all need a St Clair in our lives), but comes unstuck when Florence dreams big: hiring Carnegie Hall in 1944. His mission in life is to keep the ‘mockers and scoffers’ at bay, bribing audiences and paying off critics. Protecting her from the truth is Florence’s younger second husband, St Clair Bayfield (played by Hugh Grant, who has transformed into a silver fox overnight). When tone-deaf Florence opens her mouth it’s like opening the door on a barn full of on-heat foxes. To sing this badly must stretch as many acting muscles as all that Oscar-winning emoting. Wearing comically vile dresses that look like they’re made out of cushion covers and doilies, Streep is clearly having a blast. (David Bowie put one of her records on his list of favourite albums.) In the 1930s, the deluded diva sang at private recitals in New York, warbling opera, blissfully unaware that her hilariously awful singing voice might shatter the chandeliers at any moment. Meryl Streep continues her screw-the-Oscars, life-affirming run of movies with this ridiculously watchable comedy, playing filthy rich socialite Florence Foster Jenkins.
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