Dench delivers in droll film

Mrs. Henderson Presents (2005)
BBC Films presents a Stephen Frears film, starring Judi Dench and Bob Hoskins. Written by David and Kathy Rose and Martin Sherman. 103m. R for nudity and brief language.

2 stars

To say Laura Henderson germinated the first seeds of mainstream smut in London would be considered a preposterous notion, especially, I’d imagine, to her. She saw her Windmill Theatre, which tantalized its audience with nudes, as both a service to her country and to its fresh-faced troops awaiting the battlefields of World War II.

At the onset of the film, Mrs. Henderson (Judi Dench) is finding that independence suits her quite nicely after standing in the shadow of her now-late husband for seven decades. Instead of mindfully guarding her inheritance, she’s buys the theater because she fancies it being open instead of closed.

Since she doesn’t know a prop from a pantomime, she solicits strong-minded theater manager Vivian Van Damm (Bob Hoskins) to oversee productions. Cognizant of his benefactor’s relaxed purse strings, Van Damm pitches a bold detour: a variety revue that plays almost all day.

The idea is a smash success, which lends it to a whole host of copy-cat imitations. Instead of packing it in, Mrs. Henderson rings the man who holds dominion over theater decency regulations and pitches a nude idea.

Lord Chamberlain (Christopher Guest) doesn’t stand a chance. Mrs. Henderson’s assertiveness trumps his Puritanical constraints, leaving him whimpering only about what’s to be done to gracefully obscure each woman’s “midlands.” The pair reaches an ingenious compromise: the nudes would act as statues and cast in soft light, so that they may be considered as works of art, not blatant pornography.

And while a cavalcade of British nipples could act as a film’s catalyst, things tend to get much duller in the film’s second half. The theater is allowed to run virtually unrestricted, pandering to a lower class of theatergoers who are delighted by a series of music numbers that end with bare-breasted females posing like Greek goddesses.

Lord Chamberlain is helpless to intervene, too unnerved to renege on compromise made over fine wines and imported cheese. His only opportunity comes during the German blitzkrieg of 1940, when the government tries to compel theaters to close for safety.

But the West End performers take after their founder, demonstrating staunch anti-establishment attitudes. Besides, Mrs. Henderson brilliantly adds, not only is the Windmill below street level (and therefore, presumably safer), “Revudeville” is a necessary part of a British soldier’s morale. It may be the only opportunity for many of them to see a nude woman in their short lifetimes.

It’s a charming perspective. No matter how flawed, we give the notion a fair amount of credence because the film sells it through Dench. We’re taken three times to the gravesite of Mrs. Henderson’s son, who, we learn, tucked a naughty postcard under his bed to keep him company during long nights fighting on the frontlines in Northern France. In her unending grief, Mrs. Henderson sees the Windmill as her repentance for a son’s unfinished life.

Dynamic performances are commonplace for distinguished thespians like Judi Dench, so her Academy Award nomination for this film comes as little surprise. And while it’s hard to bet against a dame, Dench will likely be penalized because “Mrs. Henderson Presents” is merely another great performance in a seemingly unending continuum of great performances. Conversely, it could be argued that Reese Witherspoon, who was magnificent in “Walk the Line,” exceeded her usual capacity. (As an aside, Sandy Powell received a well-deserved nomination for costume direction in “Mrs. Henderson.”)

I wouldn’t be a bit surprised by a little watch-checking as “Mrs. Henderson Presents” dives into some B-plots, like warmed-over hints of romance between theater owner and manager. In a typical Stephen Frears film, there would undoubtedly be a love triangle in which someone came off the worse for it in the end. Thankfully, we’re spared that sort of melodrama, which would be an unwarranted distraction.

For a movie that considers nude women as common place as war-time soldiers, “Mrs. Henderson Presents” surprisingly lacks the punch that’s needed to give it a formal recommendation. Watch for Dench if you wish, but I suspect there will be little else to tickle your imagination.