Is it better to know the cruel truth or revel in sweet ignorance? Owing its inspiration in no small way to Sunset Boulevard and the true story of Florence Foster Jenkins (the subject of an upcoming Streep/Frears drama), Marguerite is a terribly depressing yet occasionally funny depiction of self-delusion and the lengths one will go to perpetuate a lie.
1920s Paris and Baroness Marguerite Dumont (Frot) hosts a charity concert at her plush stately home for war orphans. The place teems with journalists, the well-to-do and opera lovers. They all await wannabe opera singer Marguerite and her angelic voice, who delays her appearance as she prefers her husband, Georges (Marcon), to be present when she sings. But he’s stuck on the road, dilly-dallying over his car’s engine which seems to be in perfect working order. Hmm.
The reason for his self-imposed delay, and why loyal butler Madlebos (Mpunga) flits about with concern, becomes apparent when Marguerite begins to sing: she hasn’t a note in her head. In fact, she’s the worst singer ever. But no one can bring themselves to tell kindly Marguerite, who takes their vague compliments at face value. But the two nasty critics in attendance – Lucien (Sylvain Dieuaide) and Kyrill (Albert Fenoy) - plan something mischievous, encouraging Marguerite to take her ‘talent’ to the stage, which Marguerite jumps at much to Georges’s secret chagrin.
Marguerite is Gloria Swanson’s Norma Desmond, holed up in her lavish home (there’s a peacock in the boudoir) surrounded by those who are unable/unwilling to tell her the truth. But where flighty Desmond bristled with determined not to admit her time in the spotlight is over, Marguerite is no kook – she has absolutely no clue she has no gift; as Christa Téret’s singer maintains, in a subplot involving a romance with Lucien that’s underdeveloped and distracting, one cannot hear oneself.
There are a couple of ropey moments – the real reason behind Madlebos’ portraits of his employer and the gift mini-twist is lifted from Rickman/Thompson plot in Love Actually – but Marguerite is engaging throughout thanks to the remarkable turn from Frot, who bounces from belief to abject loneliness to instil sympathy, not ridicule; when she receives a positive review from Lucien and has no one to read it to but the assembled help.
