Film Review | The Iron Lady

This film should not exist. I don't mean that The Iron Lady is in any way obscene, or politically incorrect or indeed, historically inaccurate. And I'm not saying that it shouldn't exist because it made me so angry that I wanted to incinerate every single copy of the film, and erase it from existence.

What I mean to say is that this Oscar-touting, Meryl Streep showcase masquerading itself as an objective 'biopic' of Margaret Thatcher - one of the most contentious political figures in recent history - is so devoid of any real purpose, so scattershot in its focus, that in the end, what is supposed to paint a vivid, personal picture of a figure who remains controversial to this day just lets itself fade into a pretty nothingness.

The flabby story, told through a dizzying succession of flashbacks and flash-forwards, is rather crude.

We first meet 'Lady Thatcher' (Streep) in the present day, as she's battling senility and suffering from hallucinations which lead her to have fantasy conversations with her long-lost husband Denis (Jim Broadbent). Despite her frail state of body and mind, she endeavours to pack Denis's things and send them off to charity.

But this only intensifies her brittle grip on reality, as her deceased husband becomes a haunting presence - a reminder of the life she neglected in pursuit of her political ideals, and her unquenchable ambition.

Making the legendarily tough figure of Thatcher tug at our heartstrings is certainly no mean feat, but in choosing to focus so closely on the former prime minister's private grief, director Phyllida Lloyd and screenwriter Abi Morgan muddle things into something so neutral it barely deserves attention.

A trip to the 50s, when the 'shopkeeper's daughter' - here played by (Alexandra Roach) - is battling for a post in parliament despite the odds (namely, her gender) offers a tantalising glimpse of a political world gone by, and the formative psyche of one of the most fiercely debated politicians in recent history.

But just as soon as it arrives, it fades away - and the same is true of all the other potentially intriguing insights that pepper this directionless film.

Honestly, it's a bit baffling. Why, out of a career so rich in controversy - both local and international - would you choose to focus on (largely speculative, and not terribly exciting) biographical titbits from Thatcher's latter life? There is something to be said about works of art that put the professional lives of their subjects to one side and tuck into the unexplored interstices of their psyche... but in Thatcher's case, ignoring the politics is pure foolishness.

Perhaps 'ignore' is a strong word, but key political events are presented as if they're spliced in slideshows; interruptions to the main drama, with faux-archive footage and all. And although the Belgrano incident is made to feel central, the fact that The Falklands War comes across as little more than a slice of the overall narrative just leaves you feeling a bit cheated.

Naturally, Streep is excellent. Naturally, the cinematography is just right - costumes and period details glide across the screen in easy decorum, flowing from past to present with delicate ease. It's as pleasant to take in as The King's Speech - and just as reductive, just as unchallenging (there is even a scene that directly recalls the Colin Firth Oscar triumph). In the end, though, what we get is nothing but a series of 'Maggie's Greatest Hits' played out in rapid succession and against a frame narrative that by necessity can never really go anywhere.

Both J. Edgar and Coriolanus are still in cinemas. Go to them for your fix of political intrigue and drama, and spare yourself this flaky pap... the complacency of which I'm sure the ever-uncompromising Iron Lady herself would have despised.