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So, I guess we’re just throwing Oscar nominations at Meryl Streep for any old role nowadays. Post-Adaptation (what a performance that was!), Streep’s Oscar nominations (and wins) are a mixed bag of gorgon-like overacting (August: Osage County), middling biographical film that left her with nothing to do (The Iron Lady), and thinly written comedic roles (The Devil Wears Prada). Add another broadly comedic creation to that list of lazy nominations, yet another tread through Streep’s tendency towards going after projects that allow her to shine to the detriment of the rest of the material.
I would say this is odd considering that Stephen Frears is behind the camera here, but ever since Mrs. Henderson Presents he’s given over to handsomely made baubles that garner Oscar nominations and give a grand diva of cinema the shine to tear into a likably daft role. These films and performances feel hollow compared to the depths Frears brought to The Grifters, My Beautiful Launderette, and Dangerous Liaisons. There’s no excavation into the depths of Florence Foster Jenkins as a woman here, just the treatment of her as a likably eccentric woman completely unaware of her musical inabilities. In fact, Streep makes her variation of Florence so likable that you almost feel bad for questioning her motives or laughing at her horrific singing voice.
This gloves off treatment of the material is a serious detriment, and the entire film becomes another example of the “feel good” emotional manipulation so many of these stories engineer. There’s darker impulses at play here, but Florence Foster Jenkins wants to give you the warm fuzzies instead of seriously explore the truth of the material. Look no further than Hugh Grant’s performance as Florence’s husband, who occupies a strange mixture of parasite, enabler, supporter, and friend. The movie flattens him out, although Grant’s innate befuddled worminess brings that certain oily charm into it naturally, essentially being lazy and forcing a movie star’s normal charisma to do some of the heavy-lifting for the script.
Florence Foster Jenkins wants us to feel good about ourselves for propping up the delusions of grandeur of an eccentric, wealthy woman. I call bullshit on this. A majority of the film plays out like a Marx Brothers movie starring Margaret Dumont but the Brother never show. We just follow around this wealthy socialite and are expected to downplay our critical thinking skills in favor of propping up a deluded ego. It’s warm and fuzzy, but it adds up to nothing of import. There’s tragedy and comedy to mine from the real story of Florence Foster Jenkins, but you won’t find much of it here.
