On the Unmitigated Magnificence of Meryl Streep

Everybody loves Meryl Streep. This is a fact. Nobody in the history of the world has ever had another take—until now. Sharon Stone has gone viral for suggesting that Meryl Streep is not in a class of her own—that she is a good performer, but there are many other good performers. (That’s a bit like saying there are drinks other than water, which is true, but water is still the best one.) I read Sharon’s anti-Meryl discourse with my mouth agog. I didn’t know it was possible to feel the whole internet wince at the same time. I feel like my two favorite aunts are quarreling, and I don’t like it one bit. As my sexy Aunt Sharon and Aunt March from Little Women clash, our collective basic instinct is to protect Meryl Streep at all costs. 

I’m hoping this collision between two of Hollywood’s celestial bodies can be chalked up to Mercury in retrograde. (Lord knows my stress levels have been rocketing from zero to a thousand every time my phone pings.) This has to be a misfire in communications, surely? I think what Sharon meant to say was, “I accept Meryl as my Lord and savior, no questions asked.”  

You already love Meryl. I already love Meryl. Whoever they cast to play you in the story of your life, you all secretly hope that Meryl is tabled, even if she doesn’t make the final cut, because she has the range to play every one of us. Rather than worry that we’ve all been sucked back into that tired patriarchal mode of pitting brilliant women against each other, let us just take a moment to fully enjoy the brilliance that is Meryl Streep. How do I love her? Let me count the ways. 

I didn’t think I’d ever have to come out swinging for Meryl, and a quick refresher scan of her IMDB is overwhelming. Frankly, my eyes are exhausted. The woman has consistently acted her arse off for the best part of 45 years. All the early-days stuff is great, but let’s fast-forward through some stonking highlights. I sat through The Deer Hunter in early lockdown, and Meryl’s performance alone saved me from abject bleakness. I’ll never stop searching for the coat she wears as Mrs. Kramer in Kramer vs. Kramer, which certainly contributed to the Oscar for best actress. The second Oscar was for * Sophie’s Choice* because it’s * Sophie’s Choice*. There’s her all-singing, all-dancing paternity conundrum Donna in Mamma Mia (the blueprint for the promiscuous summer you’re about to have the second that second vax hits). 

There’s her extremely relatable Big Little Lies scream; her even more relatable kitchen breakdown in The Hours; and there’s the soothing Sondheim Zoom martini moment. There’s, of course, her star turn as a Prada-wearing devil (“That’s all,” etc.). And sorry to the wonderful Amy Adams, but I’d like a cut of a Julia-only storyline in *Julie & Julia*—just Meryl cooking and getting felt up by an incredibly frisky Stanley Tucci. Less horny but more historically important was her part as Britain’s most divisive prime minister, Margaret Thatcher.

The last thing I want to talk about is Death Becomes Her, which is my favorite film of all time save for Jurassic Park. Not only it is an ode to unadulterated campiness, but the movie has the best ensemble cast in the history of Hollywood. There’s Meryl, obvs, but there’s also Goldie Hawn as a vengeful redhead, Bruce Willis as a chaotic plastic surgeon, and Isabella Rossellini as the hottest thing you’ll ever see in your life. It is dazzling. It is dexterous. It is as camp as a row of tents. Rewatch it tonight—it’s what Meryl wants. 

Originally Appeared on Vogue