The Iron Lady

In another Oscar season case of the central performance being larger than its rather unremarkable vehicle, the realisation that Streep is superior to the film she leads is inescapable.    (Emma Thrower)

Expectations are understandably high for this film.  It's being heavily promoted and the build-up to its release started at least a year ago. Publicists released a single, striking photograph of Meryl as Margaret.  It was going to be unmissable.

I'd read that the film was written to include Thatcher as she is today; the deteriorated, demented, withdrawn resident of wealthy Belgravia, with staff, her late husband's ghost and memories of glories past to keep her company.  But I'd anticipated seeing the Thatcher of 2011 in no more than perhaps a prologue, which would precede the core narrative - that for which she will always be remembered: her ascension, prime ministership and eventual political comedown. But this turned out to be a largely unmet expectation.

The Iron Lady disappoints and Meryl Streep has saved yet another movie from bombing.

Her performance of course is extraordinary and her wonder cannot be overstated. One easily forgets it is the great American actress we're seeing, and the film's erratic storytelling and lack of depth is, at least until the credits roll, forgiven.

For years, Streep was seen as one of the more obvious casting choices for a Thatcher portrayal when the inevitable biopic of Britain's first female prime minister eventually came along.  It is regrettable that her brilliance could not have been brought to a better and more deserving production.