Babyfever

Babyfever weaves dialogue, direction and performances into a single fabric, compelling in its illusion of spontaneity and its air of truthfulness. A measure of the film's success is our willingness to watch and listen to these women's expressions of angst, set against the loud ticking of their biological clocks, when so few of the handy features of `feature' films are present: the plot is rudimentary, the photography at best unobstrusive, the editing frequently choppy. It is an object lesson in how substance can sustain in the absence of polished surface.

The impression of vulnerable and searching sensibility communicated by screenwriter Victoria Foyt in her role as Gena, a woman who might not be pregnant by a man she might not love, sets a tone of urgent inquiry that begs our caring. The nail-biting of her Malibu women friends as they gather for a baby shower becomes magically involving. Nuances of opinion replace the customary twists of plot. The eerie verisimilitude of their interactions would make huge copy if it were to happen between name-brand actors in a high-profile film.

Interestingly, perhaps not surprisingly, the only false notes are struck by the intrusion of a few men, where the director sometimes allows a shift in performance style to temporarily break the spell. But neither this, nor Gena's homo ex machina salvation, can erase the impressions left by this assembled multitude of thoughtful, compassionate, woeful, wise or resigned souls.