By Susan Granger
Special to WestportNow
“Florence Foster Jenkins” is set in the 1940s, a kinder, gentler era when a good-hearted, generous, if delusional diva packed Manhattan’s famed Carnegie Hall, and people cheered as she enthusiastically sang off-key.
Socialite heiress Florence Foster Jenkins believed she was a gifted opera singer. The coloratura soprano she heard in her head was magnificent; that her voice quavered never deterred her in the slightest.
Employing Metropolitan Opera conductor Carlo Edwards (David Haig) as her vocal coach, she endowed New York’s Verdi Club, where adoring audiences encouraged her screeching.
If she could not achieve acclaim, she could buy it – with the help of her dedicated husband/manager St. Clair Bayfield (Hugh Grant) and loyal, long-suffering accompanist Cosme McMoon (Simon Helberg).
“Music matters: it is my life,” declares Jenkins, who contracted syphilis from her first husband, necessitating celibacy in her subsequent marriage to aristocratic Bayfield, a failed Shakespearean actor.
But, in 1944, when Madame Florence insisted on giving a public concert, distributing 1,000 free tickets to U.S. servicemen, Bayfield realized that her illusions would inevitably be shattered.
Wearing a fat suit, bedecked with pearls, feathers and gossamer angel wings, Meryl Streep transcends grotesquerie, eliciting empathy by embodying often-imperious, yet emotionally fragile Florence with sensitive respect and heartbreaking understanding.
Energetically at her side, Hugh Grant embodies indulgent devotion within their complicated marital ‘arrangement’ which discreetly includes his own Brooklyn apartment and mistress (Rebecca Ferguson).
Along with their outstanding ensemble, screenwriter Nicholas Martin and director Stephen Frears rely on production designer Alan McDonald and costumer Consolata Boyle for period authenticity.
After warbling in “Ricky and the Flash,” “Mamma Mia!” and “A Prairie Home Companion,” it’s not surprising that Meryl Streep does her own singing; it takes true artistry to sound that awful.
(Earlier this year, French filmmaker Xavier Giannoli fictionalized a similar story in “Marguerite.”)
On the Granger Movie Gauge of 1 to 10, “Florence Foster Jenkins” is a tragi-comic, sentimental 7, a poignant celebration of indulged eccentricity and pursuing your dreams.
A refresher: “Jason Bourne” (Matt Damon) is a rogue CIA agent. Recruited by the U.S. Intelligence Network, he’s suffered from amnesia while exposing numerous covert conspiracies.
Bourne says he now remembers everything. His real name is David Webb, and he’s guilt-ridden about what he did as the government’s pre-programmed killing machine.
After years of anonymity, engaging in bare-knuckle boxing near the Greece-Macedonia border, brawny Bourne is once again lured into the open, determined to “learn the truth” about his deceased dad (Gregg Henry), who was also involved with the Agency.
Bourne was tipped off by his ex-CIA contact, tech whiz Nicky Parsons (Julia Stiles), who filched future black-ops plans, infuriating the new Director, Robert Dewey (Tommy Lee Jones), who suspects that her public exposure of top secrets “could be worse than (Edward) Snowden.”
Ambitious CIA analyst Heather Lee (Alicia Vikander) is slyly confident that she can bring Bourne in, while Dewey’s hired assassin, known as the Asset (Vincent Cassel), wants him dead, tracking him from Berlin to London to Las Vegas – for personal as well as professional reasons.
Adding to the intrigue is Silicon Valley tycoon, Aaron Kalloor (Riz Ahmed), who duplicitously assures his 1.5 billion users that his Deep Dream social media platform will not tolerate government surveillance, noting, “You don’t need to tell me we live in scary times. I’m Muslim.”
Based on Robert Ludlum’s concept, the timely script by editor Christopher Rouse and director Paul Greengrass sacrifices emotionally engaging character development in favor of visceral, kinetic action.
As a result, there several set-pieces, filled with convoluted foot-and car-chases, notable for Barry Aykroyd’s jittery camerawork, deafening sound, and superb stunt-work. Plus, there’s a spectacular finale in Sin City, whose casino-studded skyline is dominated by a Trump sign.
On the Granger Gauge, “Jason Bourne” is a frenzied 5, a familiar franchise that could benefit from some lower-octane fuel.
Playing on the ubiquitous Pokemon Go phenomenon, along with the popularity of horror films, Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman (“Catfish”) came up with “Nerve,” a teen-oriented cyber-thriller.
Venus “Vee” Delmonico (Emma Roberts) is a timid Staten Island high-school senior living with her over-protective, single mother (Juliette Lewis). To earn tuition to go California Institute for the Arts, her BFF Sydney (Emily Meade) introduces Vee to Nerve, a (fictional) live-stream smartphone game of dares.
After downloading an app, you choose whether to be a Player or a Watcher. Watchers suggest dares and cash prizes go to Players who participate. The riskier the dare, the bigger the payout. It’s on-line gaming with a contrived, reality-show twist.
Naïve Vee’s first dare (shown in the theatrical trailer) is to kiss a total stranger in public. Her chosen guy is Ian (Dave Franco). Since voyeuristic Watchers think they’re cute together, Vee is paired up with Ian, and he happens to be a Player who’s up for some daredevil challenges in Manhattan.
Meanwhile, Vee’s computer hacker buddy (Miles Heizer) and increasingly jealous Sydney are observing from the sidelines with growing apprehension as danger lurks in the increasingly perilous dares.
Adapted by jargon-savvy Jessica Sharzer from Jeanne Ryan’s 2012 YA novel of the same name, it’s filled with adrenaline-charged stunts, adroitly chronicled by cinematographer Michael Simmonds.
It’s a shame that 25 year-old Roberts and 31 year-old Franco appear much too mature to pass as teens – and that the late-in-coming caution about the seductiveness of Internet anonymity gets lost.
On the Granger Gauge, “Nerve” is a socially conscious 6, appealing to media-obsessed Millennials who may not heed the warning and just find the sinister surveillance idea exciting.
( Editor’s Note: Westport resident Susan Granger grew up in Hollywood, studied journalism with Pierre Salinger at Mills College, and graduated from the University of Pennsylvania with highest honors in journalism. In addition to writing for newspapers and magazines, she has been on radio/television as an anchorwoman and movie/drama critic for many years. See her reviews at www.susangranger.com.)
