Four stars. Rated PG-13, and needlessly, for fleeting suggestive content
By Derrick Bang
It may be Meryl Streep’s movie,
but Simon Helberg very nearly steals the show.
Streep delivers another bravura
star turn as Florence Foster Jenkins, a truly American original who dominated a
slice of New York’s aristocratic music scene from the early 1920s until just
before the end of World War II. Had she been content to remain a mere patron of
the arts, it’s entirely possible that performance venues — even to this day —
would bear her name.
But Jenkins also fancied herself
an operatic diva, despite having virtually no sense of rhythm or timing, and
possessing a truly lamentable voice that was incapable of pitch or sustained
notes. None of this bothered her — indeed, all indications suggest that she
wasn’t aware (or simply refused to acknowledge) her deficiencies — and she took
pains to ensure that her intimate recitals were attended solely by friends and
hand-picked sycophants.
Occasional published “reviews,”
appearing solely in small newspapers or obscure music publications, were no
more than obsequious puff pieces (which, in at least some cases, she reportedly
wrote herself).
But the charade — if that’s even
the proper term — came to an abrupt end on Oct. 25, 1944, when Jenkins gave her
one and only public performance at no less than Carnegie Hall. That event,
along with a handful of 78-RPM records she made for the Melotone label, forever
defined Jenkins’ life and career.
While the results could be
labeled as tragic or just desserts for unmitigated hubris, director Stephen
Frears and scripter Nicholas Martin obviously didn’t see it that way. Their
buoyant study of Jenkins is giddy, hilarious and unexpectedly poignant: a deferential
depiction of a free spirit who marched to the beat of her own drummer (if
seldom in time).
Streep’s portrayal emphasizes
vulnerability and fragility to a degree that seems at odds with established
fact, but it does serve to make Jenkins more sympathetic. Mostly, though,
Streep revels in this flamboyant, outsized role to a degree than Jenkins
herself would have recognized and encouraged. Streep is loud, brash, stubbornly
ambitious and utterly clueless ... the latter Jenkins’ defining characteristic.
On the one hand, there’s much to
admire about a person who steadfastly follows her own muse, however
ill-advisedly. At the same time, we can’t help feeling sorry for somebody who
is fooled and deceived by far too many people willing to maintain a pretense,
in return for social prestige or bald financial gain. Martin clearly recognizes
the tragedy of wealth, in terms of the inability to trust the motives of
so-called friends.
Streep’s performance leaves no
doubt that Jenkins couldn’t even imagine that this might be the case: She believes the (apparent) sincerity of her
admirers. She flutters, flusters and fidgets to a degree that seems
intentionally affected, and yet it clearly isn’t; Jenkins operates within her
own social reality. In modern parlance, she might be on the spectrum: an
intriguing possibility that makes her even more
sympathetic.
Streep is ably supported on two
fronts. Hugh Grant, who has remained under the radar for the past several
years, delivers a richly nuanced performance as aristocratic English actor St.
Clair Bayfield. Despite having once contemplated his own stage career, Bayfield
sublimated such dreams to become Jenkins’ amanuensis in all things: supporting
her singing “career,” carefully vetting the patrons who attend her concerts,
steadfastly intercepting any actual music critics, and much more.
On top of which — and most
crucially — Bayfield genuinely adores Jenkins, and the devotion is mutual; she
couldn’t survive without him. Martin perhaps shades the truth a bit here, in
order to expand Bayfield’s role and influence; history suggests that Jenkins
wasn’t that dependent upon him. But
the artistic license allows Grant to wield the emotional complexity at which he
excels, notably with the twitchy half-grins that — coupled with his sharp gazes
— suggest so much.
Bayfield’s life is extremely
harried, given the constant need to chaperone and subtly maneuver Jenkins’
impulsive desires, along with the challenge of pouring (often financial) oil on
troubled waters. Then, too, his bond with Jenkins — while loving — is complicated;
although outwardly appearing as husband and wife, the relationship has remained
unconsummated.
Indeed, after tucking Jenkins
into bed each night, Bayfield retires to his own apartment, and his own
mistress (Rebecca Ferguson, who makes the most of her small role as the
put-upon Kathleen).
Good as Grant is, though, he’s
outshone by Helberg: a hilarious force of nature as Jenkins’ loyal piano
accompanist, the improbably named Cosmé McMoon. Frears and Martin take the
largest liberty with this character, who in real life met Jenkins in the late
1920s. But this film confines itself to 1944, and thus adopts the fiction that
this is when McMoon enters Jenkins’ surreal world, as an eager young pianist
who hopes one day to carve out his own career.
McMoon therefore assumes that he
has been hired to work with an actual diva, a notion dispelled during a
rehearsal session that anticipates one of Jenkins’ private tableaux vivants. Frears gets such
a deliciously subtle range of emotions from Helberg (who has perfected his understated
double-takes during his decade of work on television’s The Big Bang Theory).
Watching McMoon struggle to
contain his astonishment, restrain the impulse to burst into laughter, avoid
reacting in a manner that might jeopardize this cushy new job, and bravely plug away on the piano — all
at once — is the height of sly comic genius. And it never stops; McMoon
stutters and stammers his way past the obvious questions, and the mounting fear
that he’s ruining his career potential by association.
At the same time, there’s no
question that McMoon soon grows fond of Jenkins, even protective of her: a gradual
shift that Helberg sells quite persuasively.
We expect great work from Streep;
seeing similarly deft and cunning timing from Helberg is an unexpected bonus.
Tony Award-winning Nina Arianda
also is memorable as Agnes, the floozy ex-stripper trophy wife of one of
Jenkins’ longtime patrons. With a sassy cackle reminiscent of a young Annie
Potts, Arianda is a stitch when Agnes reacts to her first Jenkins performance:
the sort of spontaneous, mirthful disbelief that releases all of our pent-up aghast-ness.
And yet Frears and Martin are
careful not to make Agnes a one-note burlesque; at a key moment, she proves
unexpectedly sensitive and loyal.
Kudos also go to Martin, who
ingeniously constructs a narrative which — despite being confined to less than
a calendar year — eventually grants us all the essential details of Jenkins’
life and career. While it’s true that Frears and Streep work hard to ensure
that Jenkins not be depicted as a pathetic
freak, the entire performance starts with the written word, and the care with
which Martin has constructed these three key characters.
It’s impressive work for a
first-time screenwriter, who until now has confined his efforts to British TV
mystery shows such as Dalziel and Pascoe
and Midsomer Murders.
The technical credits are
splendid, production designer Alan MacDonald conveying a strong sense of how
New York aristocrats tried to pretend that wartime deprivation simply didn’t
exist. Costume designer Consolata Boyle has a great time with Jenkins’
grandiose stage outfits, particularly the gaudy number worn as we first meet
her, posing in a tableau inspired by Howard Chandler Christy’s painting,
“Stephen Foster and the Angel of Inspiration.”
(Imagining this tableau, and
Jenkins’ part in it, can’t possibly do justice to the actual moment; it must be
seen to be disbelieved.)
Although much of the film’s
soundtrack is dominated by Streep’s screeching efforts at lieder and operatic
arias, Alexandre Desplat’s gentle orchestral underscore enhances dramatic
moments, particularly during the increasingly poignant third act.
As the story concludes — rather
too melodramatically, but I guess Jenkins would have understood — we can’t help
admiring her: no small feat, and a testament to Frears, Martin and the entire
cast. This light-hearted drama makes an excellent companion piece to Donald
Collup’s 2007 documentary, Florence Foster Jenkins: A World of Her Own, which is easily accessible via the
Internet ... and, I’m certain, will become a must-see for viewers moved by this
new film.
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