But the film itself, directed by Phyllida Lloyd (Mamma Mia!), is dangerously uncritical of Thatcher and, perhaps worse than that, dramatically unadventurous and weak. Yes, Meryl Streep’s physical presence and voice are spot on and deserve praise, but the film runs with supportive clichés about the former PM and packages the whole thing as camp fun. That might work for a musical based on the songs of Abba. But for the life of one of the world’s most controversial leaders, whatever you think of her politics, it’s insulting to all involved – and, above all, to the cinema-goer.
So what does the film cover? One of its problems is that it tries to cram in everything and, in doing so, recalls little with any depth. The Iron Lady is set in the present as Thatcher, now 86, shuffles about her London home. Her husband Denis (Jim Broadbent) is dead but appears to her regularly as a vision, giving her someone to share her thoughts with. It’s a creaky device, but not as creaky as using old home movies to flash back to holidays with the kids. Flashbacks are the film’s driving force and we see snippets of moments in Thatcher’s life, from working in her father’s shop as a child and losing her first election in 1950 to, as prime minister, deciding to defend the Falkland Islands in 1982 and squabbling with her cabinet.
The film’s attitude to history is sloppy too. Thatcher’s memories – the flashbacks – appear chronological, but one montage mixes footage of demonstrations by miners in 1984 with a flash of the Brixton riots in 1981. Perhaps the point is that they were all the same to Maggie – but you suspect it’s a case of the filmmakers thinking the difference between a riot and demo is negligible when it comes to kicking up a storm visually.
And what of the politics? Despite Cameron’s protestations, there’s nothing here to trouble Thatcher’s admirers. A section on the Falklands presents her as Churchillian – on the side of the military and refusing to give way to appeasers. More generally, The Iron Lady depicts Thatcher as a progressive warrior in the class and gender war of the late 20th century. ‘Never run with the crowd, Margaret; go your own way,’ her father tells her, and soon we see her fighting for her place in smoky, male-dominated back rooms. No doubt there will be many who take umbrage or offence at the idea of Thatcher as a feminist heroine or a friend of the working man or woman, but at least this element is a provocation. There’s an argument to be swallowed or spat out.
So, what are we left with? A storming impersonation by Streep. Some pleasing operatic choreography by Lloyd. And a feeling that a great opportunity has been squandered.
The Iron Lady is in UAE cinemas now.