Florence Foster Jenkins

Why are people perpetually fascinated with Florence Foster Jenkins, the (arguably) delusional craptacular WW2-era "singer?" Apparently, the socialite was the toast of the NYC concert halls for a time, where the elite converged to applaud her shrill and ghastly off-key vocal abilities while snootily making fun of her behind her back.

But her legend lived on and grew thanks to her recordings and stories, true and embellished, about this bizarre enigma.

There have been numerous theatrical productions about Jenkins, including the ill-fated 2005 Broadway play, "Souvenir" by Stephen Temperley as well as a celebrated West End show, "Glorious," written by Peter Quilter.

A rather lifeless and overpraised French feature, "Marguerite," opened here earlier this year after winning its star, Catherine Frot, a Cesar Award.

But now the grand lady of cinema herself, Meryl Streep, has decided to embody the maddening and beguiling character, and the results are yet another giddily joyous and infinitely charming performance in an infectious celebration of the life of the infamous, warbling diva.

"Florence Foster Jenkins" opens as the heiress is enjoying her life with her manager/husband/former actor St. Clair Bayfield (Hugh Grant), despite the fact that they do not have carnal relations because Florence contracted syphilis from her first husband when she was 18 -- on her wedding night (he has a mistress). Despite this horrific truth, Florence is a fighter, and she has managed to stave off death far longer than most with that particular disease during that period.

One of the things that has kept her alive is music, and Florence often finds herself entertaining small rooms filled with the upper classes, arranged, by Bayfield, so the "mockers" are kept away. He even pays off critics who, in turn, write glowing reviews. And his search for a pianist for Florence, partners her with Cosme McMoon ("The Big Bang Theory's" Simon Helberg), a talented, shy and rather fey young composer whose reactions to hearing what emits from Florence's mouth is truly hilarious and telling.

Florence is deeply committed to the craft and truly believes she's good, on her way to being great. And she's always in the company of lackeys who continue the charade (they include Toscanini), which leads her to buy a night at Carnegie Hall, where no one can control the reactions of the crowd.

Florence is first seen onscreen descending from the rafters of a theater like some cosmic Billie Burke (to quote George C. Scott in "Exorcist III: Legion"), wearing wings. She's an angel of inspiration. Alas, she is being lowered in the most awkward manner. We might giggle a bit, but we soon want her to be treated with more dignity. And that is a theme that runs through the film.

This incarnation of Jenkins is not of a woman who is simply some novelty act. She's noble. She's a philanthropist. She's a survivor. And she lives for music.

There is also an "Amadeus" like debate in the film about true genius vs. consuming drive and pure love of the art form that screen writer Nicholas Martin taps into (but does not explore enough) in his thoughtful and sympathetic script.

In a particularly striking scene, Florence is so taken with McMoon's original composition that she attempts to come up with lyrics for him. She is so immersed in the joy of the process that she cannot fathom the obvious. In Jenkins's bubble world, her passion is enough to elevate her to greatness.

Part of the genius of what Streep accomplishes in "Florence Foster Jenkins" is never to make her look like an entirely delusional nut bag. Her FFJ is so devoted to music and so surrounded by sycophants there is never any reason to think she would have a clue that she's a terrible singer. In the hands of another actress this would have been a near-impossible feat, but for Streep pulling off the impossible is second nature. Surprise! Not. Streep has delivered another brilliant performance that is enthralling and deeply moving. (Her final scene had me in tears, and I rarely cry anymore at the movies).

She is partnered with the perpetually elegant and dashing Hugh Grant, who does his best work since James Ivory's "Maurice" back in 1987.

Odd yet endearing Simon Helberg has one of the great cinema faces. In a role that could have been a caricature, Helberg gives us a flesh and blood pianist and composer of ambition who becomes enthralled by Jenkins (like most everyone else with whom she comes in contact).

Director Stephen Frears handles the story with grace and respect, never resorting to obvious mockery. Quite the opposite, he (and Streep) takes us into the inner world of our heroine so we understand her. Frears is a very astute and underrated helmer. His work in the late '80s was gritty and provocative ("My Beautiful Laundrette," "Prick Up Your Ears," "The Grifters). His subsequent films are less daring, but have their own merit ("The Queen," "Philomena.")

In "FFJ," he recreates the period just as perfectly as he did WW2-time London in "Mrs. Henderson Presents" but he also manages to capture the war-time conundrum the public was facing, those who truly wanted to do good for the country and those that were out to capitalize on the climate of the country.

Tech credits soar across the boards from Alexandre Desplat's exquisite score to Karen Elliott's period-perfect production design to J. Roy Helland's perfect hair and makeup (specific to Ms. Streep).

Audiences may have come to see Florence to ridicule her fabulous awfulness, but they kept returning because there was just something so contagious about the way she lived her life and threw herself into each note. Streep channels Florence the artist. And we can't help but empathize with her and root for her, despite what our ears tell us.