The Iron Lady...

The late Conservative MP Alan Clark looked at her ankles and thought her sexy. The late French President Francois Mitterand said she had the mouth of Marilyn Monroe and the eyes of Caligula.

Many in this country wish Margaret Thatcher's father had strangled her at birth. A friend of mine blames the policies of her three administrations exclusively for encouraging the 'me' society at the expense of the 'we' society of the welfare state democracy he grew up with.

The clue to Phyllida Lloyd's biopic of the Iron Lady, as she became known, is the title. The film is a portrait of the former Prime Minister, long before she became leader of the Tory Party and then the nation, and long after she was ousted from both positions by men she had raised to high office.

It depicts her determination to put her life to some purpose and to do it against the odds in a society dominated by entrenched male interests. Ted Heath came from the same lower-class background; but he was from the South East. Margaret Roberts, the grocer's daughter, was from Grantham, one of those little places you pass by going north on the East Coast line between London and Leeds.

But this is not a film only about party conflict, parliamentary ambitions and historical events; if it was, Milton Friedman and other Monetarist shapers of the economic policies of her first administration would have played a part in it. Nor does the film refashion old Thatcherisms such as, "You turn if you want to, the lady's not for turning", "One of us", or the usually misquoted, "There is no such thing as society". You do not get what you perhaps expect.

I was led to expect a fine performance from Meryl Streep. It is out of this world, marvellously nuanced in look, expression and speech. At times I thought the American actress was Margaret Thatcher, just as I had thought Cate Blanchett was Bob Dylan during I'm Not There. It just goes to prove, once again, the power of art and artifice. Truth may be revealed by lies, or in this case a film.

I was led to expect a film which, though sympathetic to its subject, had its moments of caricature. It struck me as a profoundly serious and beautifully executed piece of work by all concerned, not Spitting Image without the latex. Jim Broadbent plays Denis Thatcher as a bit of a clown, but not to the extent of Private Eye's Dear Bill or the theatrical satire Anyone For Denis? While it is not a searing indictment, nor is it hagiography. The film does not set out to be either of those things.

Like a Shakespearian character, or even a figure out of Beckett, the elderly old lady formerly feared and admired for her indomitable leadership, tries to banish the ghost of her long-dead husband by bagging up his things for a charity shop. As she does so, scenes from the past come back to her - private scenes, personal scenes, family scenes, political scenes; and as she remembers, her dead husband talks to her. At one point she clasps her hands to her head and turns on every electrical appliance in her claustrophobic apartment to obliterate the sound of his voice. "I am not mad, I am not mad", she says. She falls asleep in the bedroom surrounded by bin bags stuffed with Denis' clothes, shoes and toiletries, including a bottle labelled Windcheater. The scene counterpoints the one of the Winter of Discontent, with a mountain of black refuse bags piled up outside Parliament.

Last scene of all, she washes up her solitary coffee cup, dodders slowly out of the kitchen to the top of the stairs, looks down as though somebody is there, realises there isn't, pauses and turns to the camera. Nothing is rushed or spun out. Nor is the scene accompanied by emotive piano music. How I have grown to mistrust piano films. I was touched by the beauty of Streep's performance, the judgement of the director and the skill of the writer. Often people are touched not just by the emotion in a piece of work but by the presence of art in it, the way a thing is done. So my first words as the credits rolled were: That is a magnificent piece of work. I would gladly watch it again.

There are those who will judge the film against the background of realities - the miners' strike, the Falklands War, the Cabinet battles over Europe, the Poll Tax, the relationship with Ronald Reagan. They will love it or hate it according to their politics. Then there are those who, knowing more of the inside story, will find the film simplistic. I can only say again, this is not a film primarily about political events. Nevertheless, the scenes in the House of Commons, in Cabinet and in the Falklands war-room at the time of the Belgrano - "Sink it!" - are extraordinarily well done. Michael Pennington as Labour leader Michael Foot is a fine cameo performance.

I once saw Margaret Thatcher at a Conservative Party conference, the one held after the 1979 General Election, I think it was. I watched her glad-handing her way through a throng of elated Tories. I had been told how good she was at remembering the names of people whom she had met only briefly. What struck me, though, was her physical smallness. Television, I realised, magnifies. The Mrs T on telly was not the Mrs T in real life.

I would do well to remember that; but then again, I no longer pay much attention to politicians on the telly or on the radio. The Iron Lady is a valedictory, I suppose, to the years when politics was more than mere theatre or celebrity drama, when the likes of Michael Foot and Margaret Thatcher wanted to make a difference. As she says in the film: "These days people want to be somebody instead of wanting to do something."