By DOROTHY RABINOWITZ
[snip]
The film's opening scene, set at the funeral of the young hero's grandmother, finds the rabbi delivering a eulogy that pierces the ceremonial stupor settled over the sparse family of mourners -- a speech whose acid eloquence renders it countless cuts above all the other sermons to follow in the course of these six hours, and there are many. Under a disheveled beard, Ms. Streep disappears into this character so cunningly it becomes easy to forget she's there, the voice of this rabbi's charged reflections about a generation of immigrants -- and their children and grandchildren here in America. That voice comes in heavily accented English so effectively complicated it's impossible, without serious effort, to discern more than a bare trace of a note recognizable as that of Meryl Streep.
[snip]
I've watched the opening sequence described above twice. First, late at night in my home. Second, in the kitchen of the synagogue with my Rabbi. The second time, my eyes teared up when I realized it could have been written for my wife's grandparents.
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