Sometimes filmmakers see possibilities in the life of some obscure historical figure, betting that audiences will find reward in their stories. But it’s hard to see why anyone would be interested in Florence Foster Jenkins. A rich heiress, and classical music patroness, she gained national attention during World War II when she gave a vocal concert at Carnegie Hall and displayed, without challenge, the worst singing voice that was ever inflicted on the public. She died that year, 1944, at age 76, possibly from humiliation.

This may seem to invite a comic treatment, if anything, but there are problems. A survivor of syphilis, which she contracted from her first husband on her wedding night at age 19, Jenkins had tremendous will and courage, which existed alongside vanity, gullibility and erratic judgment. In other words, a noble but pititful character. Who would have thought that an entertaining film could be made about such a person? Well, whoever got the idea, the only one that matters is the choice to have Meryl Streep play her.

Stephen Frears directed briskly, with his customary skill. The story is given dramatic thrust by a nicely varied screenplay, by Nicholas Martin, filled with character “types” that are well-cast and richly played by quality actors. Still, the film is sometimes sluggish and meandering. Blame reality: the real people portrayed in the story are, for the most part, not very interesting or likable. Hugh Grant plays St. Clair, her second husband, a third rate Shakesperean actor. In return for becoming her lackey, he is allowed to have his own apartment, which is maintained for him by his young mistress. Although his devotion to Florence is sincere, you’re never unaware that he regards it as a “performance” that pays him better than any acting role he ever had. The only other prominent role is Cosme, her accompanist, played by Simon Helberg (of “The Big Bang Theory”). Cosme is a talented pianist, but not very confident about his talents as a composer. Again, he develops genuine affection for Florence,  but nothing about this character is dramatically dynamic.

A word about Hugh Grant. His performance is subtle and often touching. Grant’s charm, of course, is forever but, alas, youthful looks do fade. He now seems spent and dry, and this was a shock to me.

With one exception, the script’s embellishments of the real story don’t help. Florence makes two unannounced visits, the first to St. Clair at his apartment, where she finds him with the stragglers from the wild party he hosted the night before, and the second to fetch Cosme at his apartment. Neither contrivance is convincing or dramatically necessary, although the party scene gives Grant a chance to dance with a pretty girl.

The one exception, however, is a smart move. Martin invents a blonde gold-digger named Agnes, played by Nina Arianda, who has no interest in classical music and no need for Florence’s money because she’s already got a rich husband. But, obediently, she goes to the Carnegie concert with him. Most of the audience, however, are just unsuspecting servicemen who were given comps to the event. Their derisive hooting and laughter threaten to stop the concert after only a minute of Florence’s screeching. Stunned, she tries to continue even as the crowd gets louder. But suddenly, a rescuer from out of nowhere. Agnes, of all people, stands and shouts for the audience to be silent, remonstratively. She loudly shames them into showing respect for the woman who subsidized their evening. Once calmed, they hold back their laughter for the rest of the concert.

This becomes the payoff scene for the film. Frears and Martin confront the real audience – that is “us” – with what we may not be aware of yet. That we don’t want to see Florence humiliated then, that she should live out her dream. Humiliation will come later, we know, but we want her to meet the challenge she set for herself. And the crowd’s turnaround is credible because Agnes has been shown to be honest, decent and, more importantly, unafraid to tell other people to cut the crap!

The sad aftermath is handled with sensitivity. Florence has become real to us because Streep breathes truth into her every word, tone and gesture. Her final close-up is Florence’s death-mask, and it is a sublime moment.

I may not have been able to stand fifteen minutes with the real Florence Foster Jenkins, even if she paid for my lunch. But Meryl Streep has given us two hours of this woman’s life that I won’t soon forget.