Florence Foster Jenkins

Bad art has inspired good movies.

Orson Welles' F for Fake and Lasse Hallstrom's The Hoax were both inspired by how Clifford Irving briefly convinced the world that he had "obtained" the reclusive Howard Hughes' memoir, and Tim Burton's Ed Wood, about the mind that gave us the unintentionally hilarious Plan 9 From Outer Space, is far more entertaining that most films about great filmmakers.

In that tradition, Meryl Streep pulls off a jaw-dropping feat of alchemy as Florence Foster Jenkins, the New York heiress who wanted so to be an opera singer. Sadly, Jenkins, who died in 1944, simply couldn't.

As anyone who has suffered through the opening rounds of American Idol can tell you, the entertainment value from watching bad singers is fleeting. There are a few vocalists whose lack of awareness of their own ineptitude makes them worth a chuckle, but most bad singing, like most bad cinema, is merely tedious and unpleasant. There's no point in cranking up what you could accomplish on your own in the confines of a shower.

Streep, veteran British director Stephen Frears (Dangerous Liaisons, Philomena) and screenwriter Nicholas Martin manage to make a sidesplitting and touching film out of two hours of sonic agony because they not only revel in how Jenkins bravely and foolishly leaped into selections that have challenged the greatest of singers while acknowledging that there was something noble and even possibly heroic about her.

Jenkins actually showed some promise as a pianist, but nerve damage ruined her left hand. She also survived a series of health problems that would have killed weaker individuals and was a justly fervent supporter of the troops fighting World War II. Still, her decision to give wounded soldiers recordings of her interpretations of classical music might be viewed as much an act of generosity as torture.

In the film Jenkins performs in venues her husband St. Clair Bayfield (a typically slick Hugh Grant) carefully selects. No legitimate critics are allowed in, and many in the hand-picked crowd don't hear well enough to know she's not giving Mozart his due.

The younger St. Clair has a woman (Rebecca Ferguson) he's seeing on the side, but as with Jenkins, his complicated situation becomes more sympathetic as the film progresses. He at least recruits a capable accompanist named Cosme McMoon (Simon Helberg) who makes slight adjustments to compensate for her multiple errors in pitch. Much of the humor comes from watching Helberg's pained expressions at Jenkins' vocal deficiencies.

Oh, and Streep deserves lots of credit for coming up with a series of noises that do not appear to be of human origin. Streep, who can carry a tune well in real life, can sound like a Chihuahua being strangled, a malfunctioning fire siren or a zipper popping in a manner no satirist of classical could ever imagine to achieve.

Frears doesn't seem to do anything adventurous here, but he and Martin have still pulled off a film that is inversely proportional to the quality of Jenkins' singing. Streep walks a careful line between Jenkins' silliness and her worthy heart. Florence Foster Jenkins would lose its appeal quickly if she were merely a woman with a fat purse and a lousy voice.

MovieStyle on 08/12/2016