At first the film seems to be about an over-dressed, naively happy, fatuously absurd Florence, a wealthy woman kept apart from most other people by her somewhat younger, carefully preserved coolly impossibly husband: since she is a philanthropist most institutions are prepared to indulge her in whatever she wants in the way of concerts, no matter how corny, creaking or badly done.
St Clair has hired a voice coach and we watch him hire Cosme McMoon Simon Helberg a piano-player musician to play and give her voice lessons. He lives another different life with this mistress: wild modern dancing, late night parties, strong drinking promiscuous sex going on around him. As the movie progresses we begin to see that this steely-performance of St Clair where he protects this wife of his from every adverse criticism made of her is not hollow.
It cannot be as he gives over his whole being to it: he has to work very hard to prevent anyone who would laugh at or heckle her from coming to any of her performances. He does not have to do any of this to remain rich; she need not perform to be worshipped. Her singing lessons do keep the two of them busy, and her pre-occupied, seeing herself as endlessly working at something beautiful. To silence or get people to cooperate, he hand white envelopes stuffed with cash to people.
Those who will not cooperate are excluded from performances and their drawing-room. They abstained from sex lest he become diseased or she have a diseased child. Cosme is continually on the edge of quitting lest he lose all respect as a serious musician, and when Florence comes up with the idea of playing at Carnegie Hall to thousands, balks; in response St Clair tells Cosme he must not obey the tyranny of ambition to be great, or respected as wonderful, or his art even understood β all egoistic delusions in probability: he found himself a failed stage actor when he met St Clair, and when she married him, he liberated himself from ambition to live this comfortable life.
But is it? The movie asks, how far is all life a performance? Streep and Grant deliver as exquisitely perfect performances as I remember Grant doing as a young man in Remains of the Day where Emma Thompson and Anthony Hopkins were the pitch perfect people who missed out.
