Florence: la mejor peor de todas

Inspired by the true story of a former stage performer who tried to make it as a singer in the 1940s despite having no actual talent, 'Florence Foster Jenkins' is a far more layered motion picture than it might sound on paper. The film is actually more about Florence's husband than Florence herself, and convincing as Meryl Streep is in the title role, this is Hugh Grant's film all the way, delivering a fine turn as her devoted husband who smiles throughout all her terrible singing and works hard to keep the critics at bay to avoid her feelings being crushed. On an even more complex note, Grant has a girlfriend who he lives with in a separate apartment (paid by Florence), and amidst the layers of his character are his conflicting feelings of gratitude toward Florence and a desire to live his own life. Grant is very funny too with excellent support from Simon Helberg as a nebbish accompanying pianist and there are several laugh-out-loud moments as his attempts to keep Florence blissfully ignorant spiral out of control. Delightful as the film may be, it is not without its drawbacks. In particular, the film never feels like it properly delves into Florence's past (by concentrating on her husband more than her) and intriguing side elements like a fear of knives and a mysterious satchel are brought up without ever being properly resolved. Christian McKay also feels wasted in a very small role. The virtues here though far outshine the vices and with creative costumes throughout and a catchy, upbeat Alexandre Desplat score, 'Florence Foster Jenkins' is a pleasure to both watch and listen to, quite aside from the high quality acting and curious story.

There's something rather wonderful about people who manage to do things incredibly badly - William MacGonagall, the world's worst poet, and Eddie the Eagle Edwards, the world's worst ski-jumper, spring to mind; but Florence Foster Jenkins is in the pantheon as the world's worst singer. I have a CD of the few recordings she made, and not the least remarkable aspect of Meryl Streep's performance is that she superbly captures La Jenkins' extraordinary singing voice. This, however, is only one part of a beautiful performance, in which Streep gives us a touchingly vulnerable Jenkins. I saw this film expecting to laugh - and indeed there are some great comic moments. What I didn't expect, however, was to find myself sympathising with the title character so much, to the extent that I found myself rooting for her - not to give a magnificent recital, but at least to BELIEVE that she had. Hugh Grant plays Jenkins' sort-of husband (they never actually married in real life, though the film implies that they did) and manager. It's a fine performance, and he's lost none of his ease with comic scenes. He also has some heartwarmingly touching scenes in which he gives Jenkins the (platonic) love she is so desperate for, and when he tries to shield her from the truth. Even so, I was never quite sure how to reconcile this side of his character with the double-life he leads without Jenkins' knowledge. Simon Helberg is excellent as Jenkins' much put-upon accompanist, and Nina Arianda provides a good turn as a gold-digger who displays some unexpected heart. Highly recommended.

Mrs. Jenkins ended up having quite a fan base by the time of her passing. It wasn't because of her singing talent, it was because people saw in her the same qualities they hid within themselves: dashed hopes, failure, delusion and PASSION.

This lady loves music and loved performing. She had the means to finance her dreams. I'm sure that made a lot of people envious.

This film has some hilarious moments but also some quite touching ones. I think this film will reignite your love and admiration for the underdog. It might even make you feel better about yourself for doing it.

The other reviews calling it mental illness are bitter and harsh.

A kind of 'companion piece' to THE KING'S SPEECH. After the monarch who couldn't speak publicly we are invited to meet the soprano who should never have sung to an audience. This is the more-or-less true story of the 1940s New York socialite who seemingly did not know how monumentally awful her singing was. Florence Foster Jenkins was a Woman of Substance in more than one sense: a mega-rich heiress, built like a leaking sandbag and possessed of an immense ego.

It's a gift of a part, and Meryl Streep goes for it at full throttle, combining elements of Ethel Merman, Hyacinth Bucket and Nellie Melba to stupendous effect. The supporting cast are also given juicy roles to wallow in and, boy, do they wallow! Hugh Grant's lightweight shtick works perfectly for Florence's second husband, who openly keeps a mistress but dotes like a puppy-dog on his ailing wife, indulging her musical delusion with a passion that fully matches her own. David Haig plays Florence's vocal coach in the manner of a pantomime horse.

Simon Helberg steals many a scene as her gay accompanist who finds it hard to keep a straight face but comes to be caught up in the typhoon of Florence's enormous self-belief. There are some delicious cameos among the members of the New York elite who support the fantasy with varying degrees of sincerity. The finale, Florence's sell-out concert at Carnegie Hall is a comedic if not exactly a musical triumph.

This is a slight story, crisply scripted, elegantly photographed and stylishly directed (by Stephen Frears). Streep steams through it like an ocean liner – there's more than a hint of Queen Mary the 'former first lady' as well as Queen Mary the excessively luxurious vessel. Yet another Oscar could easily come her way. In Dustin Hoffman's QUARTET I felt slightly cheated that the principals never actually sang. Here you look forward with a kind of awed dread to the moments when the fat lady sings!

Perpetuating little white lies is part of everyday life and keeps society ticking over. But to what point is it acceptable to massage an ego with a dirty black lie. A real whopper. And is such a lie perpetuated by love? Greed? Or the pursuit of personal glory? This is the rather subtle sub-text behind the story of Florence Foster Jenkins.

Based on a true story, Florence Foster Jenkins tells the story of a truly awful singer (Meryl Streep), cossetted in her closed world of a 1944 New York hotel and pampered by her husband St Clair Mayfield (Hugh Grant), who is otherwise entwined with the sensuous Kathleen (Rebecca Ferguson). Together with ex-actor Mayfield, the wealthy Florence is the co-star of the show at her self-owned "Verdi Club" where she has a non-speaking role enacting various 'tableau' scenes. But in the interests of following her dreams she recruits the help of famous singing instructor Carlo Edwards (the marvellous David Haig) and an enthusiastic and personable young pianist Cosme McMoon (Simon Helberg, "The Big Bang Theory"). Carlo is aware of what he is in for (he wants to keep the arrangement 'on the quiet'); Cosme is not (to great comic effect).

This classic re-telling of 'The Emperor's New Clothes' ultimately takes us on a journey to a packed concert at the Carnegie Hall, where many of the tickets have been given away to rowdy and drunk servicemen.

It's impossible to describe a film as "delightful… just delightful" without hearing the velvety tones of Hugh Grant saying those words. But that's what it is. A treat of moving and at times wildly funny storytelling from director Stephen Frears ("Philomena", "The Queen") that just works from beginning to end.

Meryl Streep is just glorious in the titular role, oozing charm. Those UK readers will probably fondly remember the piano playing 'skills' of the late, great comedian Les Dawson (google it for a youtube clip) who had to be an absolutely brilliant pianist to be able to deliberately play so badly. In a similar way, we know (from the likes of "Mamma Mia") that Streep knows how to belt out a good tune, so it requires some considerable skill to deliver Florence's songs as well (or as badly) as she does. Bravo Ms Streep, Bravo!

And Hugh Grant is often quite unfairly criticized for playing Hugh Grant in every movie (as if Tom Hanks and Harrison Ford are much different?), but here he turns in a totally sterling performance. The drivers behind Mayfield's character are never totally clear (and I won't spoil that here), but in the final reel the motivating factor becomes crystal clear, and Grant has never been better. (Bravo Mr Grant, Bravo!).

To round off the accolades for the lead performances, Simon Helberg turns in a genius comic performance as the goggle-eyed pianist, who lights up every scene he's in and delivers his lines (e.g. one about a naval encounter) with perfect comic timing.

Shining again in a supporting role is Rebecca Ferguson ("Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation") who once again is dazzling. Among the bright young acting newcomers of the likes of Vikander and Rooney, Ferguson (who is approaching her mid-30s) brings a level of sophisticated glamour and maturity to the screen that is strongly reminiscent of the great starlets of the 1940's and 50's like Kathrine Hepburn or Lana Turner. She is fast becoming one of my favourite actresses. Also worthy of note is Nina Arianda as gold- digging starlet Agnes Stark – effectively playing (at least at first) the "little boy in the crowd" in the Emperor's fable.

Written by TV-writer Nicholas Martin in his big-screen debut, the story is slowly and subtly unwoven, only progressively revealing the plot points in an intelligent manner. Other screenwriters take note: this is how to do it.

Cinematography is by the great Danny Cohen ("The Danish Girl"; "Room") and with the Production Design, Costuming and Special effects crew 1940's New York is vibrantly brought to life.

While the film's leisurely pace might make the younger set fidgety, this is a treat particularly for older viewers looking for a great night out at the cinema. The film got a good old-fashioned round of applause at my showing when the credits came up. "Delightful… just delightful". Go see it.

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