Meryl Streep leads superb cast in lovable 'Florence Foster Jenkins'
"Florence Foster Jenkins" may not intentionally be a merry metaphor for the sometimes vast divide between the public and critics on matters of the performing arts.
Yet, it succinctly and eloquently lays out a story in which the public grows to value the likability and kind heart of the talent more than her actual talent itself.
Then, it falls to an uppity, killjoy theater critic to play the villain by applying aesthetic standards and rendering a harsh dose of judgment.
Boo! Hiss! on him.
The titular heroine in Stephen Frears' feisty, fact-based romantic comedy recalls another self-deluded character possessed of good heart and limited sense of public perception, Jimmy Stewart's Elwood P. Dowd in "Harvey." Except he never sang opera at Carnegie Hall.
Florence Foster Jenkins did.
Or at least she tried.
The movie opens during the 1940s with the middle-aged Florence (Meryl Streep, skating gracefully on a thin line between parody and tribute) strapped in a cheap set of wings while clumsily dangling from ropes over the stage of a New York night club show directed by St. Clair Bayfield (Hugh Grant), a former Shakespearean actor Florence sees as her "hubby" - though it's not official.
Florence clearly entertains delusions of adequacy, and St. Clair, who adores Florence, seems compelled to prevent her fantasy bubble from bursting.
When she expresses interest in singing opera, St. Clair immediately bribes Metropolitan Opera conductor Carlo Edwards (David Haig) to coach her and encourage her, even though she occasionally sounds like someone stepped on a cat's tail.
St. Clair also hires a bewildered pianist, Cosme McMoon ("The Big Bang Theory" star Simon Helberg in a breakout role burnished with neuroses and tentative self-confidence). He is astonished by the level at which people placate Florence's fragile fantasy.
The character-driven "Florence Foster Jenkins" doesn't pack much of a plot. Even its subplots succumb to ambiguity, especially St. Clair's longtime affair with Kathleen (a spunky, underutilized Rebecca Ferguson), something that Florence may know about, but we can't be sure.
Florence's contraction of syphilis from her first husband (tactfully mentioned without tawdry details) has placed intimacy on the back burner with St. Clair, who spends time "golfing" with his alternate woman.
Helberg's McMoon, the movie's designated comic relief following Streep's eardrum bludgeonings, becomes fascinated with bodybuilding (as the real McMoon did).
So, lots of quirky characters take up the narrative slack in Nicholas Martin's simplified screenplay (he discarded a court case subplot) to keep the tone light and whimsical.
Streep, who will doubtlessly earn her 20th Oscar nomination here, renders a perfectly pitched, imperfect performance whenever Florence cuts loose with notes flatter than Florida.
Anyone familiar with her impressive body of work knows she can warble a tune. Her renderings of Florence's notes are no hodgepodge of sounds, but a careful combination of comically orchestrated noise.
Grant brings a kinetic physical history to the politically slithery St. Clair, who moves with theatrical aplomb between the loves of his life. (But where does he obtain all that bribe money?)
As the hissable New York Post critic Earl Wilson, Christian McKay gleefully pulls no punches as a verbal assassin armed with a poison pen.
He complements a superb cast - including Nina Arianda's endearing take on a stock Brooklyn bimbo named Agnes - in the most oddly appealing love story of the year so far.
“Florence Foster Jenkins”
★ ★ ★ ½
Starring: Meryl Streep, Hugh Grant, Simon Helberg
Directed by: Stephen Frears
Other: A Paramount Pictures release. Rated PG-13 for suggestive material. 110 minutes