Florence Foster Jenkins
Don't Go! Doesn't quite hit the high notes.
1940s socialite's squawking swan-song.
Based on a true story, director Stephen Frears (The Queen) takes us back to 1944 in Florence Foster Jenkins. World War II rumbles on, while wealthy musical benefactor, Florence (Meryl Streep, August: Osage County) stages silver-spooned “Verdi Club” amateur musical performances for New York’s ageing establishment. She is supported by her debonair husband, St Claire Bayfield (Hugh Grant, The Man from U.N.C.L.E.) who remains hugely dedicated to her, but as part of a tacit arrangement, lives in a separate apartment with his increasingly slighted mistress (Rebecca Ferguson, Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation). After Florence decides to take up signing lessons again, jittery pianist Cosmé McMoon (Simon Helberg, The Big Bang Theory) is drafted in to accompany her. Despite her screechingly self-evident lack of ability, husband, coach, pianist and hard-of-hearing or fawning friends all sustain Florence's belief in her vocal brilliance. Spurred on by the charade, she begins to perform in increasingly public arenas, as St Claire fights to keep the “scoffers and mockers” at bay and preserve her fragile emotional and physical well-being.
Don’t be fooled by the title. This is mostly a film about St Claire Bayfield rather than Florence herself. Her eccentricities provide the humorous stage, but he is very much the one tap-dancing upon it. Nevertheless, Streep is typically excellent in a role of significant emotional nuance. From the deft waft of a feathered fan and a raised eyebrow as she squeals out hilariously terrible renditions of operatic classics; to Florence’s more painful, isolated moments of tears and troubled glances, she is the consummate actor – few others make characterisations so complete. More surprisingly, perhaps, Grant neatly completes his transformation from floppy-haired stutterer to elder statesman, having reinvented himself as a human rights(ish) champion during the phone-hacking debacle. He is a long-standing symbol of quintessential gentlemanly Englishness, but never has he played it with more maturity and tenderness. Placed in a beautifully replicated period setting, with glamorous and theatrical costume design; both embody the genteel nostalgia for the era.
The performances are nicely pitched, so it is unfortunate that the film’s warble lands a little flat when the story plays out beyond the initial overture. The joke of Florence’s poor singing is initially very amusing – pure cabaret slapstick – but it tires after the first half when the harmony between comedy and tragedy starts to waver. Interest is sustained by one remaining revelation – will Florence find out that she is a terrible singer and what will happen if she does? There is inevitability to the outcome, and when it arrives, it is less powerful than it might have been. In the era of Britain’s Got Talent, public shaming, blurred lines between support and sycophantism, and Trump re-emphasising that money and misguided self-belief can get you anywhere, there are contemporary parallels that Florence Foster Jenkins touches on, but could have done much more with. It is as much a film about the absurdity of wealth and privilege as it is a biopic of a peculiar woman and her unusual (and under-explored) relationships with music and people, but stops short of delving into the juicier issues in favour of remaining a lighter, albeit gently entertaining, movie.
So don’t go. Florence Foster Jenkins might have a nice voice, but it needed a stronger song to carry you to the cinema. The performances are often bravo, but the story tethers it firmly to the "wait-for-its-release-on-Netflix" category.
So don’t go. Florence Foster Jenkins might have a nice voice, but it needed a stronger song to carry you to the cinema. The performances are often bravo, but the story tethers it firmly to the "wait-for-its-release-on-Netflix" category.
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