“Every artist was first an amateur,” Ralph Waldo Emerson once said. However, if an artist remains an amateur in perpetuity, can that artist still inspire many, even if they never find their true voice? “The Room” filmmaker Tommy Wiseau and musician Wesley Willis, for instance, have possibly inspired more open-hearted discussions than some of the greatest artists of our time. Does that technically make such outsider artists more successful than ostensibly talented performers, even if they’re completely incompetent at their craft? That’s the kind conversation Stephen Frears invites with his latest film “Florence Foster Jenkins,” a surprisingly tender and highly enjoyable biopic about a 1940s upper class New York opera singer who became one of the most requested singers in Carnegie Hall’s history, despite exhibiting no talent as it was conventionally understood at the time.
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Affectionate, mindful and compassionate, yet never afraid to explore the sadness embedded in its bewildering “triumph” story, it’s one of Frears’ most grandiose movies to date and one of his most intimate films in years. It’s as touching and crowd-pleasing as it is sobering and solemn; it’s sweeping, meaningful, respectful and objective all at once. Never quite profound, but filled with moments of introspection and contemplation, the film is striking in its reverence to its subject, yet is also sufficiently clear-eyed about her biggest flaws and grievances. But the biggest problem with Frears’ film is that it doesn’t land with much impact or depth. More extensive themes are at play in the story, but Frears and screenwriter Nicholas Martin often explore them too broadly or without enough analysis.
Still, Meryl Streep gives one of her better performances of late in the titular role as a syphilis-stricken socialite deluded by wealth, egotism and her ever-supportive husband St. Clair Bayfield (Hugh Grant), into believing she’s a truly brilliant vocalist. An aristocrat with a heart of gold even if he isn’t always entirely faithful, St. Clair indulges Jenkins’ every whim, paying off critics who’d normally dismiss such screeching, fulfilling her strange food requests and getting her all the elaborate costumes she could ever imagine. But behind his wife’s back, Bayfield also lives with his secret girlfriend Kathleen (Rebecca Ferguson). So Jenkins lives in a facade of praise, vindication and false hope, which is progressively shattered as her concerts gain more notoriety for their outrageous incompetence —in more ways than one.
Guiding Jenkins along, for better or worse, is her young, plucky, goodhearted and somewhat insecure pianist Cosme McMoon (“The Big Bang Theory” star Simon Helberg), who is too destitute and inexperienced to quit. Eventually, Jenkins works her way up to status as a public sensation, even if her popularity is defined for all the wrong reasons. She might simultaneously be saving and ruining fine arts in mid-century New York City all at once. It’s a story as heartwarming as it is tragic.
As loud and boisterous as Jenkins might get, Frears, Martin and Streep never make Florence a full-blown caricature. There’s a sense of sorrow and humility behind even her wildest antics (and even wilder costumes). She is living a lie, yet she’s also giving the people exactly what they want, if directly at her expense. She’ll never become one of the greats, but her legacy also continues to live on —far longer than some of her genuinely great contemporaries— in spite of her abysmal lack of ability. That’s not a shocking revelation in the slightest, but Frears makes it speak volumes through his solicitous, humane direction of a film that also thankfully never goes too far into schmaltziness. That is, not until the last 20 minutes or so.
A particularly egregious and asinine subplot involving a flatly villainous New York Post theater critic (played by the typically wonderful Christian McKay) is what ultimately compromises any intrigue or depth within this touching and stratified biopic. “Florence Foster Jenkins” isn’t supposed to be profound, but it could have had the potential to become more than merely satisfying. Nevertheless, Frears makes you care about these assorted upper-class delusionaires, and he warms your heart with the picture’s persistence of the human spirit.
With its sensational production designs, lavish costumes and Grant providing one of his best performances in years (if not one of his best performances ever), “Florence Foster Jenkins” is appealing if ultimately slight. Rich in ideas but simple in its execution, Streep nevertheless invests her character with some harmony and range, and Frears makes a pretty good film about the cultural significance of bad art. Even if it doesn’t touch greatness, it certainly could have been worse, and if “Florence Foster Jenkins” emphasizes anything, it’s that it’s not always bad to be bad [B-]
