Florence Foster Jenkins was a wealthy New York socialite
with a passion, rather than an innate talent, for classical music. In the New York City of the 1940's she was a
mover and a shaker, a founder of the Verdi Club, patron of Toscanini, and
unfulfilled singer. Her amusing and often poignant climb to the pinnacle of
music--a debut at New York City's famed Carnegie Hall--is the subject of Meryl
Streep's new film, "Florence Foster Jenkins."
For those Streep fans who are now legion, one can only look
forward to what the Miraculous Meryl will pull off next. As usual she doesn't disappoint, but wrings
both the poignancy and the delightful kookiness out of the Jenkins
character. But the biggest surprise and
delight of all is Hugh Grant, who plays her slightly scandalous, but oh so
devoted husband, determined to protect Florence from the slings and barbs of
the New York critics. Why? Well the simple truth is, she not only can't
sing, she sings so badly that she can't even carry a tune--yet she appears on
stage, blissfully unaware that her butchering of great operatic arias is
hysterically funny.
Streep sings all the songs and arias herself and does
them live. Not since the recitals of
Anna Russell, a great satirist of opera in the 1950s, have I been so entertained,
and at the same time moved by the sincere love of this deeply odd couple. Grant emerges as a mature comic/dramatic
talent worthy of the late Cary Grant.
And Simon Helberg, one of the fabulous four in "Big Bang
Theory," makes a gem out of a secondary role, Mme. Florence's accompanist,
Cosme McMoon. Sets and costumes evoke a
marvelous sense of New York society during the late days of WWII. And when you next make potato salad, you will
immediately evoke the infamous bathtub scene--enough said!
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