The Iron Lady (12A)

Alison Rowat's Review

If a biopic should take on the characteristics of its subject then Phyllida Lloyd’s portrait of Margaret Thatcher and her reign is spot on. Bizarre, erratic, neglectful of reality and not above a certain hamminess at times, The Iron Lady is a decidedly B-movie attempt to get Mrs T to a T.

At the same time, this is a reverse doughnut of a drama, with an outstanding, eerily accurate, performance by Meryl Streep as Mrs Thatcher at its core. Surrounding this, however, is an airy, fairy, soft-core lefty, and ultimately unsuccessful, attempt to understand the Thatcher phenomenon.

Supporters will slate its focus on her contemporary frailty; critics will decry it as too sympathetic. Scots – whose experience of Thatcher is represented by an angry voice yelling at her car – may be bewildered. As far as The Iron Lady is concerned, Scotland did a Bobby Ewing and went into the shower in 1979. The only constituency more ignored are the miners.

The film begins in a promising and arresting fashion with Mrs Thatcher visiting the corner shop for a pint of milk. Gone is the demon housewife who knew the cost of everything in a shopping basket. In her place is a frail but still dignified elderly lady, one moving slowly while the world waltzes around her.

Returning home, aides inquire how she managed to leave unescorted. But Maggie, we learn, is never entirely alone. By her side, in death as in life, is her beloved husband Denis, played by Jim Broadbent. Gazing at the police guard outside, the imaginary Denis asks his wife: “Are they to keep the loonies out or you in?”

To these two strands, Maggie in the contemporary world and Maggie with Denis, Lloyd adds flashbacks to Mrs Thatcher’s time in office, to her early days as a candidate, struggling against sexism and snobbery like a Grantham version of Germaine Greer. We even venture as far back as wartime, when a young Maggie leaves the safety of the air raid shelter to run back to the house and cover the butter. What a finer film would have resulted had all the clues to Mrs Thatcher’s character been so subtle.

Events rattle past at train speed before switching back to the slow pace of Mrs Thatcher’s life today. One or two moments interrupt the flow, the best of which are provided by Olivia Colman as Carol Thatcher. Though labouring under an unfortunate and unnecessary prosthetic nose, Colman’s performance is funny, tender, and wise, and her scenes with Streep are among the film’s most moving.

Of chief interest among many who will go to see this film is how Lloyd handles the events of the day. It’s a huge period to cover. Three terms in government. Seismic occurrences. Lloyd touches most of the bases – the Falklands, the poll tax riots, the regicide – but leaves out so many others. Scotland and the North might as well not exist, as, her critics often suspected, they did not for the lady herself.

But this, after all, is a biographical drama, a portrait done in broad brush strokes to convey a sense of person and place. It is not a documentary. A certain amount of leeway should be granted, and is. There are scenes that are funny and shrewd and worth catching, such as the makeover sequences when ad men tried to turn the lady who wasn’t for turning into a more appealing, deep-voiced, package.

Then there is La Streep’s performance as La Thatcher. Streep worked with Lloyd before on Mamma Mia!, this time to much more harmonious effect. She has the Thatcher walk and voice perfectly, and when given the chance shows her Oscar-winning style. Though the portrayal tries a tad too hard at times, the overall effect is startlingly impressive. The scene in cabinet where she skewers a critical minister as an example to others is Streep at her best.

All of this doesn’t excuse the film’s other failings, chief among which is a script that makes its points with all the finesse of a jackhammer attacking a meringue. Lines such as “You must know when to go” and “One must be careful not to test one’s colleagues’ loyalty too far” litter the script.

The latter is said by Geoffrey “Friend of Liverpool” Howe (Anthony Head) in a voice so heavy with portent it might as well be encased in cement. All that’s missing is an EastEnders-style drum roll as the camera cuts away.

Then there are the howlers, such as having Mrs Thatcher wear a hat in the Commons, and a close-up of a newspaper which describes itself as “The cities (sic) favourite newspaper”. One might expect such mistakes in an American cable TV film about minor royals, not in a major British feature film. Shorn of its star, that’s what the audience gets though. Forget Maggie: The Musical, this is Maggie: The Missed Chance.

Paul Greenwood's Review

Potentially problematic ground is trodden in this compassionate biopic of one of the most controversial British figures of the 20th century, former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.

It begins with an elderly Thatcher (Meryl Streep), still having conversations with her husband Denis (Jim Broadbent), not realising through her fog of dementia that he has been dead for several years.

There are brief flashbacks to her as a teenager during the war, and her fledgling political career in the 50s, where she meets and marries Denis. But mostly it’s a race through the political landscape of the 70s and 80s, years that bring her rise to the leadership of the Conservative party and eventually to Number 10. In between it comes back to the present, and how she copes in her mentally fragile state.

The structure helps to break things up a bit, but it still often feels more like you’re watching a history lesson more than a movie, playing up Thatcher’s biggest moments, from the Falklands to the miners, with bombings to spice it up.

Holding it together is Streep’s mesmerising performance, much more than just an impersonation, although the voice is amazing and the make-up helps. She radiates stature and authority, but also brings an emotional range and poignancy, so that equally she’s touching as a frail old lady.

Of course, most people over a certain age will bring their own baggage to the film, depending on their views and on what the 80s brought for them, and no matter how sympathetically this tries to paint her, they may not be willing to overlook that.

That’s fair enough, but it’s a bit of a disservice to the film itself which, whatever you may think of Thatcher, you should see for Streep.