I wholeheartedly recommend Silkwood. It’s beautifully made, with a singular performance from Meryl Streep and great performances from its astounding ensemble. I need to remember to list all the supporting actors in the film. But I caution against reading up on the actual history. The film’s very accurate; the problem isn’t with veracity; it’s with the dramatic choices for the finale. The film refuses to make any claims about union organizer Karen Silkwood’s mysterious death, which occurred while she was on her way to blow the whistle on her plutonium manufacturing bosses. They’d been really shitty about telling people they’d probably get cancer and die from their jobs, plus doctored reports to make things seem safer.

Streep gets involved with the union after her first contamination; she’d been building to it, concerned about one of her friends at the plant, but experiencing it herself pushes her over. Her life quickly changes, as she’s instrumental in involving the national union in the Oklahoma plant’s business. But with Streep’s increasing involvement, her relationships suffer at home and work. Home is stud muffin boyfriend Kurt Russell and their roommate Cher, a lesbian who’s in love with Streep but also thinks Russell’s swell. They all get high, bitch about work, visit Streep’s kids, and get poisoned by their job together. The first act is all about the trio; the second is about breaking up the trio, and the third is about them having to get back together because it’s partially a medical melodrama.

A damned good one.

But the finish skips ahead a lot, focusing on Streep’s still hot and heavy relationship with Russell, ignoring both her work stuff and her increasingly strained friendship with Cher. Despite the film’s abrupt, tragic ending, there’s some kind of closure with Russell and Streep. There’s nothing with Cher. Even though Cher shows up in the ill-advised closing montage, apparently having been present for a scene the film implies but doesn’t show. Because to show it would be to take a stand on Silkwood’s death.

The ending’s frustrating—I mean, Silkwood gets away with doing an actual pre-made Oscar reel for Streep’s nomination video, so it can frustrate all it wants, actually—but knowing there was more potential content—historically solid content, too—is upsetting. The film proposes there’s just not enough information to do anything else with the finish. But the real story had some more information. There were other choices.

Before reading up on the actual history, I had intended to start talking about Silkwood in terms of staying too strict with the reality, except it didn’t even make that choice. It did something entirely different. And the film can’t get away with it.

Silkwood starts a somewhat standard outsider drama. Streep, Russell, and Cher are stoners; their coworkers think they’re a truple; they don’t fit in. For example, even though Streep’s okay with Russell’s giant Confederate flag, she doesn’t join in racist conversations with her coworkers. The film’s Americana, but that Americana. Given Russell eventually getting uncomfortable with Cher taking up with another lady is a plot point, the film is aware of that focus. It just entirely dumps it, like they weren’t allowed to cut anything throughout the film but had to stop at exactly 131 minutes.

The film’s mostly a technical marvel—Miroslav Ondříček’s photography, Patrizia von Brandenstein’s production design, Ann Roth’s costumes—but Sam O'Steen’s cutting is only just okay. It’s often good, but because of the content, not because O’Steen’s got a good feel for that material. Though the Oscar reel partially redeems the lackluster final montage; Silkwood effectively gets away with nostalgically repeating something from two scenes before. It’s not great, but it does the job–it reminds how Streep’s performance over the last two hours and eight minutes has been absolutely mesmerizing.

So cast your votes for her.

Before I forget, here’s that supporting actor costar list. It’s entirely men, but major shout out to E. Katherine Kerr, who plays the other woman in Streep’s work crew. Also, Craig T. Nelson plays a creep coworker, and he’s in the movie a lot, so I’m not counting him. Bruce McGill’s also got a lot to do but much less than Nelson. The biggest part otherwise goes to Fred Ward, and in continuing descending order of importance: Ron Silver, Charles Hallahan, David Strathairn, Josef Sommer, J.C. Quinn, M. Emmet Walsh, James Rebhorn, Bill Cobbs, Gary Grubbs, Anthony Heald, and Will Patton–the Nichols Thirteen or something.

Russell and Cher are both good but not great. Well, wait. Cher’s always good but never great, while Russell’s often good but never bad. He’s really good with the bump and grind scenes, where he and Streep slobber on each other, but he doesn’t really get a character arc.

Nora Ephron and Alice Arlen co-wrote the screenplay, which technically never runs out of stream since there’s no dialogue after a certain point. Silkwood doesn’t want to do a thriller sequence in the third act—supposition and all—and their solution of flashing forward into the epilogue is unsuccessful. Nichols loses track of the story at just the wrong moment.

But, like I said before, it doesn’t really matter. Silkwood’s already knocked it out of the park; Streep’s astonishing, Nichols’s direction—big thanks to Ondříček’s lightning—is excellent, and the story’s always compelling.

Though—and I promise I’ll get back to an uptick for the end—we need to talk about Georges Delerue’s score before we go. Delerue starts doing honky tonk, which is fine, but then it stops and never comes back. He does lots of melodrama instead, which is fine too, but just when the music should be figuring out how to combine those two genres, Silkwood punts. The film gives Delerue a vote of no confidence with the ending music choice; it’s a cold burn to Delerue.

But, of course, Silkwood makes it work because it’s a superlative piece of work.

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