The Iron Lady

A facile history lesson, plus mighty acting

Meryl Streep won her third Oscar and much else for the leading role, but The Iron Lady attracted mild controversy on its release. An old woman struggling with dementia, Margaret Thatcher talks to her dead husband Denis, and recalls her life and work. The depiction of mental ill health was criticized as disrespectful by a smattering of Tories, including some who had even seen the film. Streep points out that this says more about our discomfort with mental frailty, and wonders whether there would have been outcry if Thatcher had, say, a problem with her lungs.

Don't panic, her lungs are fine.

What of the film? Streep gives a remarkable performance, particularly as the elderly Thatcher (in a magical feat of make-up). Mannerisms and impersonation are contained within a wonderfully convincing portrayal of a mind and body gradually failing with age. And the controversy is ill-founded. These scenes, especially those earlier in the film, are the most interesting by far. From here, the acting, structure and mildly daring concept could combine to produce an absorbing, intimate biopic.

Sadly, the interest dissipates much too quickly as we are soon shunted around snapshots of Thatcher’s career. It starts with a perfunctory glimpse of her childhood, Oxford education and early romance with Denis. There is some strong writing from Abi Morgan, which foreshadows later moments in office and in old age. But Thatcher’s ambition and aspirations are presented cosily and nostalgically, so that there is no real impact, and any insight is facile. It also seems lightweight because it all flashes by so quickly, no scene lasting more than a few minutes.

More Heseltine needed. Ouch.

This is symptomatic of the film as a whole, and ultimately what damages it most. We rattle through a unique career at high speed, striving to cover every key event. Moments that should be revealing, such as the decision to sink the Belgrano, vanish before genuine intrigue can develop. We must move on to the 1983 election; we must jump to the present day once more (if only to be reminded that Mark Thatcher is a tosser – there really is no need). Director Phyllida Lloyd lacks patience and faith, even with good writing and acting at hand.

It means we get no grasp on Thatcher beyond a basic history lesson (the stock footage is the most enlightening), and often only the merest hints at her relationships with family, colleagues and adversaries. Anthony Head and Olivia Colman, as Geoffrey Howe and Carol Thatcher, have the best interaction with Streep, but Jim Broadbent’s hectoring ghost-Denis soon becomes annoying. Meanwhile, Richard E. Grant’s circling vulture by the name of Michael Heseltine is near-ridiculous and Michael Foot is not referred to by name once. Even the mighty Meryl suffers from the scattered structure, robbed of dramatic momentum; come the Poll Tax, power-mad Thatcher just seems daft. She even momentarily reminded me of Edina Monsoon.

Margaret Thatcher was certainly never daft. She had conviction and claws. Despite the best efforts of the actors and make-up department, these are attributes lacking in Lloyd’s film. Poor Tilda notwithstanding, the award season adulation for Streep was deserved. But her generous performance serves an unworthy whole – and that's not how the Thatcher story goes.

6

Minimal Extreme

Going through to Glasgow for Einstein and dazzling Flux

For the past couple of years, Glasgow's Concert Halls have been hosting weekend-long festivals celebrating Minimalism in music, from visionary 1960s beginnings to current manifestations. Among the attractive features of these weekends are the inexpensive hour-long concerts in the afternoon. These are imaginatively programmed and feature top performing artists, and I decided to make the trip across for two of the latest. This time the festival came with a qualifier: Minimal Extreme. I had a preparatory pint.

David Lang: genial

The first concert was devoted to an interesting composer with whom I was unfamiliar, David Lang (in attendance and providing a short and genial introduction). It began with two pieces in differing moods. Ark Luggage, for soprano and string quartet, received its premiere. It lists ninety-two things Noah may have brought on the Ark, as proposed by Peter Greenaway. The Smith Quartet and Else Torp were crystalline in the gently oscillating piece, which came across as a curious but pleasing vignette. Then came Pierced, a pounding concerto for piano, cello (amplified here) and percussion, with the tremulous Smith Quartet alongside. It is an ominous and thrilling piece.

The main course was The Little Match Girl Passion, Lang's Pulitzer Prize-winning choral work based on a mixture of Hans Christian Andersen's story and Bach's St Matthew Passion. Performed beautifully by four singers from Theatre of Voices, with sparse percussion, it is static and haunting. I only felt restless when the concert overran by nearly half an hour, after a late start and a fair amount of stagehand fuss throughout. I sadly forwent my inter-concert gin.

On to the second concert, another predominantly vocal offering but a rather different affair. Titled “Glass/Flux”, we reached back into Minimalism's earliest years. The five Kneeplays from Philip Glass' seminal opera Einstein on the Beach were interspersed with pieces by the composers from the Fluxus group. In the 1960s, this varied collective of artists and musicians developed forms of conceptual art and 'event' performance, extending the work of John Cage.

The rarely heard selections here were dazzling, masterfully performed by Ars Nova under the direction of Paul Hillier. The pieces favour simplicity and blur distinctions between art forms. La Monte Young's Composition 1960 #7 was in progress as we entered the hall, the singers quietly humming a perfect fifth, marked in the score “to be held for a long time”. This established a mood of hushed continuum; we moved from piece to piece largely without applause.

The Fluxus offerings were playful, Dadaistic and often fiendishly difficult. In Dick Higgins' Hank and Mary, four singers recited “Hank shot Mary dead”, each repeating every word a different number of times. It created a scattered and hilarious cascade, a kind of exploded cantus firmus. Meanwhile, Paul Hillier's solo performance of Genesis by Emmett Williams played a clever trick with broken word sounds, intoned whilst he extinguished a dozen candles in turn. Both pieces could not help but break the audience's stillness: there was spontaneous applause at their close.

The Kneeplays are choral tours de force. Glass involves the singers in complex counting patterns with added violin and fragments of poetry. Ars Nova, Hillier and violinist Jonathan Morton were again impressive and a joy to watch. How I wish I could see the revived Einstein on the Beach on its current world tour. The inspired presentation here, mingled with Fluxus, was exciting and something I would love to have shared – another success for the Glasgow's Minimal series. Philip Glass will be at the next instalment in person, and my ticket is already booked.