Films are a way for us, ordinary people, to experience love beyond the natural encounters of one lifetime. Most movies exploit this by providing a relatable fantasy. Vicariousness enabled by hyperbole. But good movies cheat the common standard. Florence Foster Jenkins is a narrative/comedic rift on the classic Emperor's New Clothes, but there are no ready comparisons for the relationship at its core.
In the biographical account of the titular heiress' late years, Jenkins (Streep), amuses herself and guarantees her place in New York aristocracy by supporting the arts. Always by her side is former soliloquist, now husband, Bayfield (Grant). Jenkins satisfies her artistic longings by taking non-speaking roles in vignettes. However, this harmless hobby appears to be insufficient. Jenkins yearns to fulfill her dream of bringing music to the world personally. She has the funds for any venue and access to the best vocal coach in the city. What she lacks is a confidant willing to inform her that her voice is atrocious. Always loyal, Bayfield remains at her side, bouncing spectators and bribing journalist. Anything to maintain a deception that prevents his wife from confronting the embarrassing truth. As if the situation was not already sufficiently perilous, Jenkins is an infirm survivor of syphilis; her matrimony platonic out of necessity. Every night Bayfield returns to his own apartment and another women, all subsidized by his wife.
The joy of FFJ is the slow reveal of the pair's essence. Each development in the tenuous sham forces the audience to reevaluate the nature of the couple. Is Jenkins a romantic whose dream has obliterated her awareness? Or is this an elderly women, suffering from syphilis induced insanity, leaving nothing but platitudes, vanity, and a preoccupation for potato salad. Equally vexing is Bayfield. He is the ideal highborn companion. Jenkins would clearly be a mess without him. However, this bond is marred by the presence of a mistress. The former actor could just be a charlatan. Trapped in a 20 year charade with a companion who, miraculously resilient to her disease, should not be alive. This is picture painted in the first act, and only grows more nuanced. There might be a correct interpretation, but the fun of guessing makes the drama.
Conversely, the comedy might need help. Most egregious is Jenkins' performances. The horrendousness is intended. In fact, it is a dead on impersonation. The only problem is someone thought they struck comedic gold. There is a sold 15 minutes of Jenkins singing followed by a cut to an audience member's surprised reaction. One pair in my theater thought this was a riot, I and others were not amused. If you thought listening to an awful singer was painful I promise that listening to an awful singer presented as funny is excruciating. But in fairness, most audiences will come to FFJ for Streep and Streep they will get. This consistent greatness has somehow become mundane. A performance worthy of an Oscar nom, but not be career defining. Ridiculous. Grant is a worthy partner. His natural suave makes the casting obvious. Strong apart, together an irresistible force. This is a kind of couple you will rarely see on the silver screen. Florence Foster Jenkin is one of the superior tales of love in recent memory. A romantic dream, but not above the sour notes of deceit and narcissism.
In the biographical account of the titular heiress' late years, Jenkins (Streep), amuses herself and guarantees her place in New York aristocracy by supporting the arts. Always by her side is former soliloquist, now husband, Bayfield (Grant). Jenkins satisfies her artistic longings by taking non-speaking roles in vignettes. However, this harmless hobby appears to be insufficient. Jenkins yearns to fulfill her dream of bringing music to the world personally. She has the funds for any venue and access to the best vocal coach in the city. What she lacks is a confidant willing to inform her that her voice is atrocious. Always loyal, Bayfield remains at her side, bouncing spectators and bribing journalist. Anything to maintain a deception that prevents his wife from confronting the embarrassing truth. As if the situation was not already sufficiently perilous, Jenkins is an infirm survivor of syphilis; her matrimony platonic out of necessity. Every night Bayfield returns to his own apartment and another women, all subsidized by his wife.
The joy of FFJ is the slow reveal of the pair's essence. Each development in the tenuous sham forces the audience to reevaluate the nature of the couple. Is Jenkins a romantic whose dream has obliterated her awareness? Or is this an elderly women, suffering from syphilis induced insanity, leaving nothing but platitudes, vanity, and a preoccupation for potato salad. Equally vexing is Bayfield. He is the ideal highborn companion. Jenkins would clearly be a mess without him. However, this bond is marred by the presence of a mistress. The former actor could just be a charlatan. Trapped in a 20 year charade with a companion who, miraculously resilient to her disease, should not be alive. This is picture painted in the first act, and only grows more nuanced. There might be a correct interpretation, but the fun of guessing makes the drama.
Conversely, the comedy might need help. Most egregious is Jenkins' performances. The horrendousness is intended. In fact, it is a dead on impersonation. The only problem is someone thought they struck comedic gold. There is a sold 15 minutes of Jenkins singing followed by a cut to an audience member's surprised reaction. One pair in my theater thought this was a riot, I and others were not amused. If you thought listening to an awful singer was painful I promise that listening to an awful singer presented as funny is excruciating. But in fairness, most audiences will come to FFJ for Streep and Streep they will get. This consistent greatness has somehow become mundane. A performance worthy of an Oscar nom, but not be career defining. Ridiculous. Grant is a worthy partner. His natural suave makes the casting obvious. Strong apart, together an irresistible force. This is a kind of couple you will rarely see on the silver screen. Florence Foster Jenkin is one of the superior tales of love in recent memory. A romantic dream, but not above the sour notes of deceit and narcissism.