The Iron Lady (***)

This is perhaps two thirds of a very good biopic about the life of Margaret Thatcher, British counterpart to Ronald Reagan, yet his temperamental opposite. Unfortunately, the employment of a mostly useless framing device — Thatcher (Meryl Streep) spends half a dozen segments in the near-present day as she struggles with dementia and has conversations with her late husband (Jim Broadbent)—mars it. Not only does it rob the narrative of some momentum with a storyline that emphasizes the artificial nature of the medium—how could screenwriter Abi Morgan (Shame), or anyone, know that Ms. Thatcher is turning on her radio and other noisy appliances to drown out the sound of the imagined husband she’s bickering with?—but it also uses up time that would have better spent, say, showing us how a grocer’s daughter came to such firm conservative beliefs that, even today, she is a controversial figure in her hometown in the English Midlands. Or how young Margaret Roberts became so determined to break into the nearly uniformly male field of electoral politics in the 1950s. (Director Phyllida Lloyd depicts some of the sexism that greeted her efforts, but wisely doesn’t make it the main focus; the visual statement of the pearl-necklace-wearing Thatcher among a sea of grey suits makes its own statement.)

Other than Thatcher’s landmark achievements as 1980s prime minister—the taming of the trade unions and the victory in the Falklands War—the film elides over her specific political policies, not to mention her four years as opposition leader, in favor of emphasizing her forcefulness and disinclination to yield. (The vehement opposition to her is also depicted without the film seeming to take any position on whether it was justified.) Indeed, American Tea Party sympathizers will find her an appealing heroine, and even firm liberals may fantasize about a President Obama who’s as unwilling to compromise.

Streep, of course, is entirely convincing; another actress, Alexandra Roach, plays Roberts/Thatcher as a college student, newlywed, and 1950s candidate for a seat in parliament. At least the makeup artistry that makes Streep look 80 can be admired. Broadbent is a fine actor, but not one who can be made to look young. So we see Denis Thatcher in the earliest scenes played by another actor; then he seems to age about 40 years to Thatcher’s 20. Oddly, Broadbent appears more as a ghost than in the scenes when Denis is alive. Although Denis was ten years the senior of Margaret and an archconservative, his possible role in shaping her political views is not explored.

For some reason, too many biographies of current or recent figures (e.g., J. Edgar) seem to insist on some sort of flashback structure so that the story is told from a present-day perspective. Yet less frequently is this done for those who died long ago. A Dangerous Method, for example, is perfectly content to dispense with the last 40 years of Carl Jung’s life in a brief epilogue. This would have done just fine to sum up the post-office life of Lady Thatcher. As it is, depicting the Iron Lady in her doddering dotage, possibly lamenting neglecting her husband and children, and the grandchildren off in South Africa, would seem to sentimentalize a woman for whom sentimentality would seem wholly inappropriate.

IMDb link

viewed 1/26/12 7:35 pm at Ritz Five and reviewed 1/30/12

Ghost Writer (***)

Roman Polanski’s thriller is like a video version of a middle-brow novel of the sort that consumes that portion of the bestseller list not consumed with diet books, polemics, and memoirs. Maybe like one written by Robert Harris, whose novel he helped Polanski adapt. I’m not meaning to insult the movie, just saying it’s lighter fare than Oliver Twist or The Pianist, the director’s last two films. But it’s easy to like, so long as you’re not Tony Blair. Blair is not the name of the character played by Pierce Brosnan. He’s supposed to be some other recent ex-prime minister who’s accused of shipping off terrorist suspects for some CIA-approved torture. Come to think of it, foreign-policy conservatives may not love the movie either, since the idea that it’s okay to do that is never entertained. The only questions are what the prime minister did, and how soon Ewan McGregor is going to dig around and figure it out.

McGregor is the title character, who gets hired to finish the prime minister’s memoirs when the original writer dies in an accident. Sorry, an “accident.” Although Polanski, unable to work in America or the UK, could have set the movie in Europe, he fairly successfully re-creates the atmosphere of London and Martha’s Vineyard, where the prime minister shares a compound with his intelligent and mysterious wife (Olivia Williams) and his assistant (Kim Cattrall). Most of the movie take place in the US.

The plot skirts skirts the edge of the plausible, and probably goes over it, but doesn’t insult your intelligence. At the very least, it’s a thriller whose thrills don’t depend on car chases and explosions, and one that delivers a surprise or two.

IMDB link

viewed 3/24/10 at Ritz East and reviewed 4/6/10