Mixed Feelings

I certainly understand where the original poster is coming from. I viewed Florence Foster Jenkins twice—mainly just to check my original assessment. And both times, my analysis proved essentially the same: I found the film "decent." I enjoyed and appreciated Florence Foster Jenkins a little more the second time, and the movie possesses likeable aspects—it is the kind of film that one wants to like. Ultimately, however, Florence Foster Jenkins is not quite satisfying.

The film's main problem is tonal inconsistency or an inability to fully integrate tone and mood (depending upon one's perspective). Basically, the material lends itself to both comedy and tragedy, and the film (so to speak) cannot fully make up its mind as to which one it wants to be, nor does it smoothly, shrewdly, or satisfyingly blend the two on a consistent basis. The attempts are effective at times (the best, in my opinion, is the morning after the party, when Mrs. Jenkins pays an unexpected visit), and those attempts are not bad overall. But the discrepancies—larger here, slight there—give the film the feeling of being just a bit "off," almost as if one is viewing one movie layered on top of another.

At times, Florence Foster Jenkins aims to virtually be a screwball comedy, which is not an illogical choice given the nature of the material. This approach especially defines the film's opening act—maybe the first quarter or third of the movie, when we see Mrs. Jenkins develop her ambition to become an opera singer and then attempt to realize that goal through individual instruction and her first concert. But even there, given her illness, the film is also shooting for a tone, or a mood, that is touching, poignant, and perhaps sentimental. Comedy and tragedy can certainly be smoothly or organically blended, but the problem is that the comedy is too obvious or overt to complement the tragic undertones. Moreover, the constant jokes are only slightly, or lightly, amusing. (Granted, when I viewed Florence Foster Jenkins the second time, I did so in a small theater with a number of other people, and most of them seemed to find the jokes hilarious, laughing uproariously as if the movie constituted the funniest thing that they had ever seen. But on neither of my screenings did I find the comedy to represent anything more than slight amusement on average.)

In, say, the film's middle third, the movie slows down (a welcome development from the somewhat manic tone of the opening act) and thus finds a more natural blend of comedy and tragedy. The party scene and its morning aftermath are quite strong and effective in that regard, the aftermath in the apartment effectively striking notes of both comedy and tragic poignancy or vulnerability, without strain.

When the Carnegie Hall sequence begins, however, the tone of screwball comedy returns. There is nothing wrong with that tone, but the film does not feature it consistently, the tonal shifts are not smooth, and the screwball approach does not fully complement the underlying tragic tone or mood. (Mood may be the more accurate word choice.) Then, as Mrs. Jenkins shows her resiliency with help from an unexpected ally, the easier, more natural blend of comedy and tragic poignancy returns. But in the final act, involving the chase of the New York Post copies, the tone of screwball comedy reasserts itself. The sequence is not unfunny, but as with the opening third, the jokes are a bit too obvious or overt given the underlying tone or mood of frailty and fragility. In short, there is too much of a discrepancy. And the shifts in tone—while not jarring—are a bit strained, especially given the sentimental and earnest denouement.

Again, the historical material lends itself to both comedy—even the screwball variety—and tragedy, so blending or reckoning with the two was always going to constitute a challenge. Unfortunately, writer Nicholas Martin and director Stephen Frears do not quite meet the challenge. I thought that Frears did a much better job in this respect with the very good Philomena (2013), which managed to be low-key, humorous, and moving. There, Frears seemed to possess a shrewd, full-fledged, idiosyncratic perspective on the material. Here, Frears appears to be searching between competing banalities, albeit with an unusual and striking story.

All that said, there are still worthwhile elements in Florence Foster Jenkins, especially the leading performances by Meryl Streep and Hugh Grant, the jazz-and-classical score by Alexandre Desplat, and the cinematography, particularly during the concert scenes and the shots of the auditorium, the balcony, and so forth. Frears understands the power and beauty of a a still visual composition, especially from a distance.

Thus Florence Foster Jenkins is, at times, a nice film to look at and listen to, and the acting is enjoyable, especially from Streep and Grant. But from the perspective of tone and mood—the necessary unifying elements of any movie and the ones that a director is most responsible for—the film tries to be everything and thus ends up as nothing in particular, neither a dynamic comedy nor a powerfully resonant drama nor a savvy blend of the two. Rather, Florence Foster Jenkins plays more as a curious anecdote: at least the viewer departs having learned of this endearing, if puzzling, historical episode.