Projecting Thatcher

‘The Iron Lady’ and the Iron Lady I knew

The Iron Lady is a cruel film: brutally unsparing in its depiction of the hazards of old age. I was ready to be angry and to believe that, like jackals, Hollywood lefties were closing in on an aged lioness, safe in the cowardice of assailing the vulnerable, overlooking in their sniggerings the obvious point. In her prime, one roar, and they would all have fled in terror.

Those suspicions were unjustified, for this is cruelty in the pursuit of art. The outcome is cinematographic power. It is a work of force and pathos. For most of the time, I was enthralled; at moments, moved to the verge of tears. The principal actress is outstanding. Admittedly, Meryl Streep sometimes sounds like a parody of Margaret Thatcher. So, quite often, did Margaret Thatcher. As a great actress should, Miss Streep has insinuated herself into her role. Her Margaret Thatcher is a heroine. That is an accurate assessment.

The film has faults. About 60 per cent of the way through, it loses its thread. For whatever reason, everything goes awry, like the passages in Turandot written after Puccini’s death. There is too much dementia. I am asured by those who see Lady Thatcher regularly that she is not nearly that bad, which is not the point. In their inadequacy, those sections diminish the film. But, like Turandot, it recovers before the end.

As for the other characters, Geoffrey Howe’s voice is uncannily good. The actor conveys a blend of diffidence and steel, of Aristotle and Winnie the Pooh: just like Geoffrey. Michael Heseltine is a failure. He comes across as a sharp but shallow account exec at a smart advertising agency.