More than anything, The Iron Lady reminded me of that Onion headline, "Court Rules Meryl Streep Unable To Be Tried By Jury As She Has No Peers." She's just that good. Unfortunately, she's the only good thing in Phyllida Lloyd's mostly unfocused Margaret Thatcher biopic. See those three stars floating up top? Those are for Meryl and Meryl alone.
Lloyd takes an unconventional approach to telling the life story of Britain's first female Prime Minister, and it almost works. Instead of starting at the very beginning (sources indicate it's a very good place to start), we meet Margaret in her twilight years. Streep virtually vanishes into the role, but the transformation amounts to more than just makeup. Her stature, voice, even her phrasing precisely captures a person slipping quietly into dementia. Occasionally, she needs to be reminded that she is no longer Prime Minister. And then there's that pesky specter of her husband (a pleasantly bemused Jim Broadbent) whom no one else seems to see. He's always forgetting his coat, that one.
As the elderly Margaret hosts dinner parties, watches television, and flips through photo albums, memories are triggered, and we dive back with her into the murky pool of the past. However, instead of truly taking the plunge, Lloyd is content to delicately skim the surface of Thatcher's life, presenting us a collage of scenes that fail to convey the significance of her time in office. It's not content that's missing, but context; those hoping to glean how Thatcher's strict conservative policies fit into history will have to search elsewhere.
Ultimately, The Iron Lady succeeds as a character study, but fails as a biopic. Director Phyllida Lloyd (Mamma Mia!) and screenwriter Abi Morgan (Shame) do solid work, but Streep can't help but outclass them. Meryl, if you're reading this, call me.
SumOlogy: See it for Meryl.
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