Now playing at the Old Greenbelt Theatre. Review by Anna Socrates.

As a rule, remakes are usually exercises in misguided nostalgia—the second go-arounds almost never recapture the original magic. But every rule has its exception. Take House of Cards. When the brilliant British political satire crossed the Atlantic—and Francis Urquhart morphed into Frank Underwood—viewer got to experience a familiar story in a different cultural context. Although both series chronicle the rise of an ambitious politician, they feel very different. Jaded British cynicism gives way to an equally ruthless American optimism, but the American version introduces different characters, throws others off the track, and emphasizes new concerns that more readily resonate with its audience.

So too with Stephen Frears’s new Meryl Streep vehicle, Florence Foster Jenkins, and its French counterpart, Marguerite, which played at the OGT a few months ago. Marguerite borrows from the life of Florence Foster Jenkins, an American socialite and infamously dreadful amateur opera singer and the subject of Frears’s film, but the Jazz Age Marguerite is darker and crueler to its supremely oblivious and untalented protagonist. The servants wear earplugs when Marguerite practices, her unfaithful husband Georges is offended by the deception, and her seemingly loyal butler Madelbos plots her downfall.

Madame Florence (Streep) appears more fortunate in her associates. Although her husband St. Clair Bayfield (Hugh Grant) is also unfaithful, he is surprisingly tender and loyal. Grant imbues his performance with enough ambiguity to make us doubt his sincerity, but unlike characters in Frears’sDangerous Liaisons and The Grifters, his duplicity is never fully realized. He remains a nice guy to the end, even choosing Florence’s honor over his mistress.

Streep has the harder task of making Florence’s delusions believable, and she executes her assignment competently if not brilliantly. The advance publicity stressed how Streep, a talented musician, needed special training to sing that badly. We learn enough about Florence’s past—a controlling and distant father and an early marriage to an “alley-cat” older husband who gave her syphilis—to feel protective toward her when she is being ridiculed for her bad performances.

Her accompanist, Cosmé McMoon (Simon Helberg) is protective as well, even though he initially protests at the grand deception and quakes at the thought of a Carnegie Hall debut with Madame Florence. Helberg’s mobile face and expressive body language bring much needed comic relief, but in the movie’s most touching scene, he plays a Chopin duet with Florence because her damaged hands can no longer manage the melody.

But the snooty New York Post critic is right—Florence’s singing is truly painful. Because we’ve been cajoled into empathizing with her, we don’t question how Florence’s wealth has bought her access, attention, and audience. In this 1940’s version of Eat, Pray, and Sing, self-delusion comes at a high price.

Like Streep’s performance, Florence Foster Jenkins, merits 4 reels for competency, ably aided by Grant and Helberg. The costumes are a delight, including Madame Florence’s concert contraptions, the Katherine Hepburn-inspired outfits of St. Clair’s mistress, and especially Tallulah Bankhead’s fur-trimmed velvet evening gown.

Check the theater website for information about movie times and online tickets. Florence Foster Jenkins accessibility: OC, 12:30 pm Sunday; all other showings with CC and descriptive audio.