| Vidaview: Take Pity on the Poor “Iron Lady” |
| Written by Alejandro A. Riera |
|
January 12, 2012, 9:00pm CST (Take Pity on the Poor “Iron Lady”) By Both reviled and adored, Margaret Thatcher is, without a doubt, one of the most divisive Western political figures of the 20th Century. Britain’s first female Prime Minister, Thatcher won three consecutive elections, was Ronald Reagan’s strongest ally in the West and took on the unions, the I.R.A. and the Argentinean military junta over the Falkland Islands as well as her country’s male-dominated political establishment. During her reign, Britain saw both prosperity and the highest unemployment rates in that country’s history. Her political rise and fall would have been fodder for one of Shakespeare’s historical plays were the Elizabethan playwright alive today. Abi Morgan is no Shakespeare (really, who can be?) but she is a damn good writer. Her BBC mini-series “The Hour” was a slow burning, complex and, in the final three episodes, thrilling look at the early days of British television news. And her script for “Shame” (co-written with director Steve McQueen) was unnerving: to this day I still have mixed feelings about it…and yet, I cannot get most of that disturbing film out of my head. Alas, her script for “The Iron Lady, directed by Phyllida Lloyd (responsible for the atrocious big screen version of the musical “Mamma Mia”) takes the easy way out in her portrayal of Thatcher, opting for a Wikipedia approach to contemporary history rather than a full-bodied, vibrant one. Morgan and Lloyd’s approach to this rather complex figure is simultaneously unique and flawed: to tell Thatcher’s story from the perspective of a woman who tries to come to terms with her legacy and her faithful husband’s death while battling dementia. The film opens with a rather homely Her days are spent sorting through her husband’s belongings and attending whatever social functions her ailing health will permit. Every object, every newscast, every word triggers a memory, her vibrancy and stubbornness occasionally popping up, a grim reminder of the strong lady she once was. In flashbacks, she revisits her humble origins, her fights against her colleagues’ sexism, her undergoing a slight makeover a la “The King’s Speech” before running for election and on and on. Morgan and Lloyd never bother to explore any of her career highlights in depth. They don’t even bother to explain what made Reagan and Thatcher tick; we only see them dancing cheek to cheek. These highlights are disposed off with newsreel montage after newsreel montage. The problem with such a structure is that our memories are not chronological in nature. Memories are haphazard, jumping back and forth in time and space, sometimes deceiving us into thinking that things happened in one way when they most probably happened in another. By sticking to the rules of a biopic, they undermine their own narrative while, at the same time, giving us a sympathetic portrait of Thatcher that borders on the hagiographic. The movie is watchable thanks to Streep who, once again, transcends mere impersonation by presenting us with a flesh and bone, totally believable and accessible character. Yes, she gets Thatcher’s every verbal and physical tick right (as does Alexandra Roach who plays the younger Thatcher). But her performance is far more nuanced than one would expect for such a showy role, especially in those scenes involving the elderly Thatcher. There is tragedy in this character, a tragedy that Streep understands all too well. Hers is a performance in search of a much better movie. Alejandro A. Riera writes about culture (Latino and non-Latino alike) in his blog culturebodega.
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Thatcher buying some milk at the corner grocery store and cooking breakfast for her husband Dennis (Jim Broadbent). It doesn’t take long for us to realize that she is talking to either Dennis’ ghost or to herself.
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