Perfectly calibrated pre-post-revanche-retreat-pseudo-feminist comedy from Hollywood’s top practitioner of same. The signal moment here is the one where Streep goes to see her therapist of years and years and says, This time, I don’t want to explore possibilities, I want you to tell me what to do. Is it more empowering, Streep wants to know, to be true to oneself or to be of service to others? Is it healthy or unhealthy to break the rules? What she wants, really, is a god, and at any given moment either none or too many (psychotherapy, money, sex, dependence, independence, family, success, adventure, stability) are available. The movie’s great service is to not underestimate the intelligence of the audience, to not pretend it’s not complicated. There is self-loathing ugly garbage in here about women and class, as there is in just about everything Hollywood touches, but this is about as good as it gets, to coin a phrase.