How does a driven perfectionist live with a self-confessed slob? David Rosenthal analyses the two facets of this fascinating actress.

Meryl Streep gets nervous. Not all the time. But there are occasions when an eerie chill rides down her spine, introspective moments when it seems as if the walls of her well-constructed edifice would tumble down with an ignominious crash. "I'm not really self-analytical," she says slowly. "But I've been thinking that maybe a lot of my anxiety about global concerns may be a way of displacing my own anxieties about my incredible good fortune. So much happiness has come to me, and I think somewhere, somebody's got to pay." This is, indeed, a reasonable expectation in a world of fickle idolatry, especially when you've risen to celebrity as quickly as she, when in five years you've gone from drama school graduate to one of the most sought-after actresses of your generation. But would-be demystifiers are in for stern competition; her self-assessments are far more scathing than anything a critic might concoct. The higher you get, the harder you fall. Meryl Streep considers herself lucky and knows just how good she is, so she is determined to keep questioning herself as she continues the ascent.

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