Usually when it’s said that a performance saved a movie from disgrace its a blatant lie. There is no chance a poorly-written and mediocrely-directed can be rescued from oblivion by an actor. Unless that actor is, of course, called Meryl Streep. First and foremost, The Iron Lady is not a bad movie. Academic. Yes. Uninspired. Most of the times. Insufferable. No. The portrait of Margaret Thatcher is indeed a very biased and romanticized version of the truth and Phyllida Lloyd of Mamma Mia! is definitely not the director this picture needed, but one must give her credit for one thing: let the movie be devoured by that gargantuan performance. No matter how redundant it is to put Meryl Streep and acting excellency in the same sentences over and over again, she is once again incomparable and makes The Iron Lady an compelling and even unforgettable movie. As usual, her transformation is complete and goes beyond mere imitation, giving a one dimensional written character such glorious and disarming depth. If she is superb while portraying the controversial figure at the height of her power, Streep portrays her fall into cold dementia in a credible and endearing way. There are many moments that will stand the test of time, like the silent pause after Thatcher humiliates her aide in front of the whole cabin and sits alone in an empty room in which she goes through an whole array of emotions and finally lets her mask fall. That scene alone is worth an Oscar. And that’s the eternal and unique wizardry of Meryl Streep.