In the interest of getting “hard” copies of my work under one roof, I plan to spend the next few weeks posting the entire archive of my film journalism here on ScullyVision. With due respect to the many publications I’ve written for, the internet remains quite temporary, and I’d hate to see any of my work disappear for digital reasons. As such, this gargantuan project must begin! I don’t want to do it. I hate doing it. But it needs to be done. Please note that my opinions, like everyone’s, have changed a LOT since I started, so many of these reviews will only represent a snapshot in time. Objectivity has absolutely no place in film criticism, at least not how I do it.
Deserved critical adoration will be heaped upon Meryl Streep for her delightfully batty take on the titular character, but the real star of Florence Foster Jenkins is Hugh Grant as Jenkins’ husband, manager, and dutiful enabler. The way he grins and bears his way through the wretched vocalizations put forth from his wife’s lungs is worthy of our adoration, but it is no match for the adoration he carries for his beloved. That’s the secret to Stephen Frears’ period-comedy: while the plot is all about Florence Foster Jenkins, socialite turned terrible singer, the story is focused on her husband, St. Clair Bayfield. It would be a shame to spoil the details of their very specific and complicated relationship, as the movie finds tension in divulging these items at a meted pace, but the adult nature of their arrangement adds a thematic depth to what could easily have been your typical night at the movies with Nana.
The film is based on the true story of Jenkins’ short career as a singer. They say practice is the only way to get to Carnegie Hall, but in the fall of 1944, Jenkins proved that money is a fine alternate route. Using her connections to the arts world and her notoriety as a terrible singer (to which she was impossibly ignorant) she managed to sell-out the venue. Nicholas Martin’s bubbly script covers the months leading up to this grand(?) performance, from her initial rehearsals with pianist Cosmé McMoon (Simon Helberg, giving a brilliantly subdued comic performance) to Bayfield’s madcap dash around New York to purchase every copy of The Post and effectively quash all negative press. The film avoids dipping to heavily into the traps of so many period films by keeping the proceedings efficient, light, and frequently very funny.
But since this is a Stephen Frears movie, the lightness is not at the expense of density. As previously mentioned, there is an exploration regarding the very definition of a relationship while examining the responsibilities of the parties involved. Just when does protective dishonesty become a bad thing? – If indeed it was ever a good thing.
This theme branches out further as the film calls into question the relationships between critics and creators. It’s the creator’s job to please and the critic’s job to mandate quality, but at what point does this conflict of interest stop being mutually beneficial? At what point should the creator be ignorant to the critics? At what point should the critics respect the difficulty of even the worst creations? There are no answers here, but such is inherent to the art world. We see it in today’s YouTube stars, some talented, some tragic, but all given captive audience. So what if she can’t sing? She can entertain, and that, as they say, is showbiz! As such, we should be content to let Florence Foster Jenkins have it both ways given that the movie is perfectly entertaining from beginning to end.
This is a feel-good movie, and it delivers good feels as efficiently as others of its ilk while offering a bit more thematic resonance to boot. Watch Meryl Streep have fun, watch Hugh Grant flex his chops a bit further than we’re used to seeing (he legitimately great here), and watch Simon Helberg show you precisely how he’s been able to elevate The Big Bang Theory from garbage to watchable garbage for way too long.
Additional kudos to cinematographer Danny Cohen for creating a 1944 New York that doesn’t feel like a blue screened Sims expansion pack.
Florence Foster Jenkins opens in Philly theaters today.