On The Iron Lady

Anyone who has seen Phyllida Lloyd’s The Iron Lady will know that for a biopic about a political icon, Lloyd’s film isn’t terribly political. Aside from the more obvious events in her prime ministerial era, Thatcher’s actual political actions are barely touched upon. If one were looking to create a political drama, one might look at what the filmmakers behind The Iron Lady have done and do the complete opposite. It becomes clear that in making the film, they were not looking to appeal to the part of us that wishes to either agree or take issue with her political actions; instead, the filmmakers wish for us to, if not exactly forget her politics, focus instead on her admirable tenacity and her deplorable decline. Who wouldn’t admire Steep’s Thatcher as she is portrayed at the height of power, and feel almost compelled weep for her as she ages? And let’s not allow ourselves the comfort of thinking this is a film about anything other than age and decline, about being out of touch; about those who wake up one day surprised to find that they no longer have the entire world at their fingertips.

All the dependable platitudes are there: the trite manifestos about thrift and prudence, alongside and even forced to mingle with the idea of a woman playing a distinctly masculine game — and winning. “A man might call it fiscal responsibility,” the young Margaret Roberts intones in the company of an entirely male audience, “a woman might call it good housekeeping.” But that’s exactly the point, isn’t it? Thatcher herself said she prefers (or at the very least preferred) the company of men. It would not be as absurd as it seems to suppose that she very nearly considered herself to be one of them, even if she retained her feminine nature. She may have been playing a man’s game, but she certainly played by men’s rules.

All of the film’s scenes of struggle and triumph are undermined by a sobering feeling of lament, because they are viewed through the lens of her slip into mental and physical frailty. Its writing is invariably clever, Streep’s performance is unforgettable and uncanny, and she appears to adopt the role effortlessly. Though this is a shallow reflection on any performance. What greater compliment can be paid to someone who so excels at mimicry than to say that as an audience member I saw Margaret Thatcher, not a portrayal?  Perhaps Charles McGrath was correct when he opined that Streep seems “even more Thatcher-like than Mrs. Thatcher.”

Meryl Streep’s talent as an actress beyond this, however, is thoroughly underrated. If one is willing to look past her astounding capacity for impersonation, it is obvious that Streep endowed her portrayal of Thatcher with the charisma that the character requires: in spite of her bluntness, there was an unmistakable allure to Thatcher; a distinctive charisma, even from afar (a ‘sexiness’, if you will, although the term has become somewhat platitudinous as a description of Thatcher’s elusive appeal). Streep’s Thatcher has this, too. To achieve it requires more than to mimic, for mere mimicry comes across as shallow and has a tendency to become almost parodic (one might cite Streep’s delightful portrayal of Julia Child in Julie & Julia as an example). Instead, The Iron Lady’s Thatcher has depth. All portraits are imperfect in some sense, but this one seems so close it could almost be mistaken for a photograph.

The film is so, so clever. You should go and see it.

(Image: Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher in The Iron Lady, via The Weinstein Company/Toledo Blade)