FLORENCE FOSTER JENKINS (2016)
Directed by Stephen
Frears
20th
Century Fox, 110 minutes, PG-13
* *
Florence Foster Jenkins (1868-1947) has been called the
worst singer in history and whether or not she was is probably not worth the
argument. How did a woman with no tone discrimination, pitch, sense of timing,
range, or much of anything that passed for basic ability have a stage career
that lasted for decades and end up singing at Carnegie Hall? What made her
think she could tackle Mozart, Verdi, Straus, Brahms, light opera, and popular
song? How did she get to count among her friends—or were they just
patronage-seekers?—such luminaries as Arturo Toscanini, Kitty Carlisle, and
Cole Porter? How did she buffalo tough critics such as Earl Wilson, or get to
hang out with Vanderbilts?
Good questions. I wish the film Florence Foster Jenkins had given us more than crumbs upon which to
chew while cogitating them. Alas, this Meryl Streep vehicle—she plays
Jenkins—is as flat as Jenkins' voice. Part of the problem lies with Streep, who
has fallen into the habit of resting upon her laurels and simply sashaying
around the screen flashing her dimples, but mostly the problems are with a very weak
script (Nicholas Martin), and director Stephen Frears' decision to dress his
film in intriguing external detail whilst leaving central questions unexamined.
Was Jenkins deluded in thinking she could sing? Here are a
few details the film only touches upon and ought to be spotlighted. Jenkins was
raised in wealth in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and was a child prodigy on
piano. She probably would have made a name for herself as a pianist had not
that career been cut short by an unspecified arm injury. She eloped with Dr. Frank
Johnson in 1885, who infected her with syphilis on their wedding night, and
they split soon thereafter. It is unclear if they ever formally divorced but,
in 1909, she met talented British actor/singer/orator/ producer Bayfield St.
Clair, with whom she had a common-law relationship. Their relationship was
probably chaste as there was no effective cure for the clap in those days. A
17-year-old such as Jenkins might be reasonably be expected to live another 20
years before being laid waste by the disease, but Jenkins made it to 76 through
the prescribed treatments of the day: compounds of lead, arsenic, and
mercury—all of which, of course, are toxic in their own right. Penicillin
saved/saves millions, but it wasn't discovered until 1943, by which time
Jenkins was in the tertiary phase of the disease and could not be helped.
Know this, as the film won't tell you. The effects of
advanced syphilis in conjunction with its pre-penicillin "treatment"
included chancre sores, hair loss, and fatigue. More importantly for this film,
syphilis also brought dementia, heart problems, hallucinations, and hearing problems. There is a scene late
in the film where we see Jenkins imagining how she sounded to others. That was
a nice touch, but it was played as if Jenkins was fantasizing; it's possible it's
how she actually "heard" herself. Therein lies a tale, but not one
Frears told.
Instead, the film emphasizes the triad relationship between
Jenkins, St. Clair (Hugh Grant), and Ms. Jenkins' accompanists, Cosmé McMoon
(Simon Helberg). We get early clips of Jenkins performing non-singing roles in
St. Clair tableaux vivants (an early
20th century entertainment with a narrator paving the way for a
staged historical scene), and we learn she was the founder (and, via
inheritance, Sugar Mama) of New York City's Verdi Club. It is important to know
that the Verdi Club was a social and supper club, not a public concert hall.
Jenkins performed regularly and badly there. Did St. Clair and the club
clientele patronize her, or simply indulge her the way my friends indulge me when
I sing? Unclear.
Frears suggests that St. Clair might have been a gold digger
and McMoon just a Depression-era ivory tickler who needed the money, but he
also suggests St. Clair and Jenkins had an out-of-sight/mind open relationship,
that he was absolutely devoted to her, and that McMoon came to view Jenkins
with great affection. About that affection—there is nothing in the film other
than the whiff of money that explains how St. Clair or Jenkins moved in such high-highfalutin circles. (It would have been helpful to know that St. Clair acted
in, directed, or produced 40 Broadway shows; or that he was considered a talented vocalist.) Jenkins had money, but it
wasn't a king's ransom. In other words, where's the charm? If everyone knew she
was so awful, why did they encourage and protect her? We need to know this, or
she's everyone's personal freak show—an unspeakable level of cruelty.
Yet this is how Frears plays it. I found this film to be a
major disappointment. What could have been a fascinating musing on the
character and career of an unorthodox character is instead long segments of
Streep—who is a trained and skilled vocalist in real life—assaulting our ears,
punctuated by Grant comforting her, and Helberg sacrificing his dignity in the
name of money, then friendship. In its own way, the movie is as off-key as a
Florence Jenkins aria.
Rob Weir
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