Hard not to fall in love with Streep here. As a ditzy, coke-addicted
Hollywood actress, she wrestles with her demons in a radiantly comic style that
recalls Carole Lombard. Tossing off smart-ass repartee, working deadpan and
double takes,
... moreunreeling sarcastic monologues sotto voce as her chief demon (her
diva mom) screeches on obliviously, Streep was clearly born to play screwball.
What she has mastered here is the art of reaction, so that you can't take your
eyes off her even in two-handed scenes with scenery eaters like Shirley MacLaine, Gene Hackman, Dennis Quaid, et al. Everybody's a narcissist in
the Dream Factory (on- and off-screen), and somehow that reality frees up Streep
to let go big time. And let go she does when she belts out a country music
anthem, shakin' her booty and bangin' tambourine all over the stage. The lady's
rarely been so irresistible. Look for her again, all grown up, in "A Prairie Home Companion."
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