Last Friday, we learned of the story of Batkid, aka Miles Scott, a five-year old with leukemia who spent the day fighting crime in San Francisco, as set up by the Make-A-Wish Foundation. All day long, we got caught up in his adventures, how the city
Who wants to see a movie about Margaret Thatcher? The Weinstein Company will find out today, as The Iron Lady goes into wide release. My guess is that an audience that shrugged at Harvey Weinstein’s other Oscar-baiting bioportrait, My Week with Marilyn (for good reason; it’s awful) will also roll its eyes at this one. There are some historical figures best left to biographers and documentarians, and based on the evidence of The Iron Lady Thatcher is one of them. But I could be wrong. There’s always the Meryl Streep factor to consider.
Streep is the latest-arriving of movie stars. Active in cinema since 1977, the actress’ actress (a record 16 Oscar nominations, two wins) didn’t arrive as a crowdpleaser until The Devil Wears Prada in 2006, when she was 57, and it’s been gravy ever since, with name-above-the-title hits that peers like Glenn Close and Jessica Lange can only dream about: Mamma Mia! (2008), her first collaboration with Iron Lady director Phyllida Lloyd, and a summer and Christmas season twofer in 2009, Julie & Julia and It’s Complicated. And it was complicated: the groundwork was laid 20-plus years earlier by directors like Mike Nichols (1986’s Heartburn and 1990’s Postcards from the Edge), Albert Brooks (1991’s Defending Your Life), and Robert Zemeckis (1992’s Death Becomes Her), who got her out of the accents and frippery of her storied beginning and made her lighter and more approachable. Eventually, at an age when most actresses are resigned to playing
A note to our readers: Former Popdose contributor John Hughes’ departure for bigger and better things has left a rather big hole where his “Lost in the ’70s/’80s/’90s” columns used to be. Fortunately, John gave his blessing for the rest of us to take up his fallen standard, and we’ve pledged to do our best to live up to the brilliance of his work. So without further ado…
When is a rave review also a kiss of death? Perhaps when it’s 1987, and the “critic” is Margaret Thatcher.
It’s pretty well established by now that politics and pop music are uncomfortable bedfellows, at best. Particularly in the three decades since both Great Britain and the United States fell to their respective conservative parties, most attempts to link politicians with pop have been ham-fisted embarrassments – no matter the party or the pop star. As a columnist for the U.K.’s Guardian newspaper put it a few years ago, “Thinking about a politician listening to rock music is like imagining your parents having sex: you not only lose all respect for them, it puts you off the whole concept.”
In that same 2004 article the columnist, Alexis Petridus, bemoaned the attempts of leading Tory politicians to boost their hip factor by variously proclaiming their admiration for the Scissor Sisters, Dido, Jarvis Cocker and even Meat Loaf. Petridus suggested that if history were any guide, those acts might be doomed to suffer what he called “the Curse of the Thrashing Doves.”