It’s become an odd industry ritual that two films focused on the same or similar subject matter must be released within months of each other. Volcano and Dante’s Peak, Olympus Has Fallen and White House Down, Capote and Infamous and now Marguerite and the forthcoming Florence Foster Jenkins. Both centre on the true story of a New York socialite-cum-opera singer who remained blissfully unaware of just how dreadful her voice was, and while Stephen Frears’ starrier version (with Meryl Streep and Hugh Grant) tells a more authorised tale, this is the fictionalised version, relocating to France and shifting some of the major plot details. In a Cesar-winning turn, Catherine Frot is sensational, offering up a subtle, often heartbreaking, performance in a role that could have been reduced to broad and grotesque comedy. She earnestly attempts to progress her musical career while those around her protect her from the truth, with a variety of agendas. It’s a film that relies on our sympathy for her and she flawlessly commands it, without ever resorting to sentimentality. The film around her is equally elegant, despite the rather uneasy combination of fact and fiction, and sets the bar high for its Hollywood rival.
