The Iron Lady opens with an elderly Margaret Thatcher (Meryl Streep) buying milk at the dairy. Nice touch, that, for the grocer’s daughter. Unrecognised, she hobbles home 
against the morning rush and to her housekeeper’s consternation: Thatcher’s mind is failing and she’s not meant to be out. Aptly, the film adopts this fracturing of mind and memories as its narrative structure to move between past and present. It’s not completely successful; we get the metaphor, but the time-jumps can be muddling. If not for the visual cue of Streep’s face, we could get lost.
For the face is a triumph of make-up and prosthetics. Marese Langan has designed extraordinarily convincing younger and older Thatchers, even capturing that slightly vulpine look. Add the hair, suits and Streep, and it’s a creation and performance to be watched and admired. Although Streep’s mannerisms might surface fleetingly, she virtually disappears behind the mask, ranging from imperiousness to dotty fragility without a hint of caricature, her accent and speaking style flawless.
Watching and admiring, however, is all we get to do. Thatcher is the cynosure of almost every shot, and the effect is distancing. A defined emotional journey could have closed that gap, but neither the public events depicted nor the few private moments give insight beyond the one-notedness of that iron will. Only once does Streep let Thatcher’s mask slip in a moment of doubt, but it’s too late. Although an excellent depiction of the Thatcher we already know, her deeper psychology remains a mystery.
THE IRON LADY, directed by Phyllida Lloyd.