(Photo Credit @Paramount Pictures)

Stephen Frears‘ 2016 film, “Florence Foster Jenkins,” was a instantaneous, worldwide success among critics and the public alike. It was one of the most popular biopic projects in recent Hollywood history to touch upon the musical scene before the release of Pablo Larraín’s “Maria.”  The film tells of the exploits of Florence Foster Jenkins (1868-1944), who was an American socialite and amateur opera singer. Jenkins gained fame (and, arguably, infamy) for her idiosyncratic performances where her voice seemed to avoid the right tones yet invariably produced their own, oblong, misshapen, yet beautiful, forms. 

Regarded as the “worst singer in the world” by some and yet ardently praised by others for her determination, perseverance, and love of the arts even if her mastery was poor, Jenkins was hardly a superficial admirer of opera and classical singing. She was someone who had as much genuine love for the arts as she had delusions as to her own talent. How one could translate this saga to the cinema screen, however, is a separate issue altogether. Yet it is a task that writer Nicholas Martin and soprano Julia Kogan managed to achieve. One writer and one opera singer: it was perfect match.

In this month’s edition of Opera Meets Film, I want to revisit the film for the first time since it was analyzed in 2018, when it was studied for its depiction of Jenkins. There is so much left to look at concerning this film as it not only depicts a seminal point in history but a critical discussion as well. The dimensions of a biopic, opera or otherwise, are often mired by over-exaggerations, under-representations, and mischaracterizations. The figure inspiring the film often has no real agency to tell their own story, but is instead reduced to being the simple plaything of interpreters who are far from knowledgeable. Using biopics as a means to teach someone about the past is a dubious endeavour, and for opera and music this is doubly so! 

Based on a True Story? Perhaps, Perhaps

The narrative of “Florence Foster Jenkins” begins in 1944 as Jenkins has already married St. Clair Bayfield, an English actor. Having seen a performance by Lily Pons, French-American coloratura soprano, Jenkins is determined to pursue opera and promptly hires pianist Cosmé McMoon and coach Carlos Edwards of the Metropolitan Opera House to help train her. Soon a private recital is held at the Verdi Club. This is a self-funded venture, and her recital is met with some jeering while others maintain their stoic facade. While reviews of the evening are positive, leading to a partnership with Melotone Records, McMoon finally realizes Jenkins’ musical deficiencies. Despite this, Jenkins and McMoon write several songs together. Soon Jenkins books Carnegie Hall for her debut performance. This concert is full of musical elite, from popular to classical alike, and, as one could predict, the performance is dreadful. Although bribed, critic Earl Wilson writes a terrible review of the evening. Although McMoon tries to prevent Jenkins from reading it, she ultimately finds a copy of it and, upon reading it, collapses, dying later in bed.

How much is true? How much is contrived? Generally, everything the movie depicts, minus some dialogue and certain scenes, is real. The film follows a generally accurate chronology of Jenkins’ life, though certain specifics are simplified for cinema. For example, in 1909 Jenkins entered into a permanent relationship with Bayfield, but this was not marriage per se but instead a mutual cohabitation that endured until she died in 1944. The historical Jenkins, having come into a considerable sum of money from her recently deceased father in 1909, moved to New York City to pursue her dream of making a name for herself onstage. She founded the Verdi Club in 1912 as a means of breaking into the higher echelons of New York society, although she had already hosted extravagant theatrical soirees where she invariably fashioned herself as the lead. It is unclear how and when the historical Jenkins first began exploring her love of music. Because of her burgeoning status within New York’s elite and personal wealth, she rubbed shoulders with musical royalty including Edwin McArthur, among others, and the allure of music could be scarcely resisted. In Spring of 1912 she began her concert career in Manhattan.

The film takes place in 1944, the year of Jenkins’ Carnegie Hall debut. This came after at least seven years of tackling difficult coloratura repertoire to varying degree of success. On this night, at the age of 76, she performed many difficult arias back to back, from Queen of the Night and Adele to Lakme. The concert’s attendees included luminaries of the field, from Gian Carlo Menotti, Lily Pons, and Marge Champion, to Cole Porter, Kitty Carlisle, and Alix Williamson. Reviews ranged from the caustic to the kind to the downright malicious and, in many respects, her singing career reached its apex and its end all in one night. The way the film portrays her death is not quite accurate. In reality she suffered a stroke while browsing G. Schirmer’s music store in New York City and died one month later at home. What is fascinating is that Bayfield knew Jenkins’ performance would go terribly and end with some tragic event, yet he would not prevent his partner from doing what she loved.

Opera As The Backdrop To Something Larger

The other dynamic within the film which can be easily observed is the way opera becomes a backdrop for larger and deeper conversations about the nature of being human and the obstacles to living authentically. As far as we know, Jenkins was not faking her adoration for opera: it came from a very real place. This place, despite external derision and fierce acrimony, had been for so long untouchable. When this beautiful illusion was finally broken, she could no longer find herself on this Earth. As American playwright Albert Innaurato wrote, “She was compos mentis, not a lunatic. She was a very proper, complex individual.”

La Gran Scena Opera Company director Ira Siff regards her performances as works of alternative genius where she would “stray from the original music, and do insightful and instinctual things with her voice, but in a terribly distorted way.” Maybe her performance really was just bad—but maybe, just maybe, there was something within the dissonant tones of Jenkins’ singing that struck a chord deeper than tonal music could. That is what I think really happened. With Jenkins, we are forced to confront the idea that opera is simply the story of human existence. We have wrongly connected this to tonal beauty when in fact it was never tonal to begin with. Instead it is brutal, raw, dissonant, and sharp. We must embrace the primal call of this natural sound and return to the era when opera was about raw, human, uncontrolled emotional expression rather than manicured posturing. It was the visceral honesty of Jenkins’ sound that made all who heard her so squeamish.

As Darryl W. Bullock writes in his 2016 book, “Florence Foster Jenkins: The true story of the world’s worst singer,” she was not some second-rate opera fangirl but a dedicated lover of the craft despite her personal, technical shortcomings. As he writes, “Those who knew her… were adamant that she was absolutely sincere in her conviction that she was truly gifted, and that this dizzy diva was innocently unaware of her distinct lack of talent.” From her story we can learn a lot about how to be better humans to each other, how to live authentically despite the vitriol of the peanut gallery beyond the lip of the stage, and how we can overcome ridicule when when it sometimes seems so overwhelming that it maybe feel easier to just give up. What is so uniquely fascinating about Jenkins is the way she embraced, if only through her delusion, her flaws and wished to share her genuine joy with others and make them happy. She truly wanted to celebrate being alive and making art with those she loved. In short, as Bullock neatly summarises, “her story is one of triumph in the face of adversity, of courage and conviction, and above all of the belief that with dedication and commitment (and a whole lot of money) one can achieve anything.”

In many respects, the film does a great job at raising the argument that opera is but a backdrop for life itself: life and all its many obstacles that are placed in the way of our journey towards fulfilling our purpose, no matter how fanciful or obscure that purpose may be. It is true that Jenkins was a subpar singer, but it was never really about the music, nor never really about opera. It was about serving her guests and the public with the joy of life itself. “We shall never get to appreciate her in her full, unbridled glory, and will never know the genuine joy that she brought to an audience” writes Bullock. What we can have is a small taste of what love of others feels like when one lives altruistically, honestly, openly, without fear, without reservations, and without anxiety of what others may think. Jenkins is a masterclass in how to be real. The film allows opera to tell the story of confronting our shadows and moving past them.

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