Charles Shyer's "Baby Boom" skates perilously close to familiar territory, treading the well-worn path carved out by the likes of "Three Men and a Baby" and "Working Girl." It sails the cinematic seas with its cargo: a premise so comfortably predictable, it's practically wearing pajamas-a yuppie maven who must master the fine art of child-rearing when a baby falls into her lap like an unexpected inheritance.
In this cinematic nursery, penned by Nancy Meyers (with a co-writing credit to the director), the film gleefully plays patty-cake with clichés. We watch as J. C. Wiatt, a woman so polished she could double as a mannequin for a cosmetics line, convinces her boss, Fritz Curtis (a robust Sam Wanamaker), of her undying commitment to corporate conquest.
Admittedly, the opening act tested the limits of my paternal patience, as it unfolded a spectacle that I, a father on the cusp of doubling his brood, found somewhat trying. Observing J. C.'s all-thumbs baby handling was akin to watching someone juggle eggs with a similar lack of finesse. Perhaps my view is tinted by the lens of fatherhood, or maybe it's the concession to cinema's enduring double standard: clumsiness in childcare is seemingly more palatable when it's the three men fumbling the baby.
As the tale unfolds, the infant transforms into a briefcase-bursting burden, unsettling J. C.'s boardroom ballet to the point of farce, until, at a crucial juncture, she decides to embrace the chaos. Her decision, though, feels as manipulated as a puppet on a string, thanks to the contrived unpleasantness of the potential adoptive parents. The narrative railroaded her into motherhood; the refusal to surrender her unexpected charge to likable alternatives is conspicuously absent.
Enter Diane Keaton, whose natural charm in such roles should be bottled and sold as elixir. Even when playing an accidental mother, her presence commands the screen-her authentic awkwardness becomes an asset, not a flaw. The story, too, finds its stride, offering a cheeky critique of corporate ladder-climbing and the balance of power within a patriarchal business world.
The plot takes a detour to Vermont, where Keaton's character finds her true calling not in the boardroom but in the heartland of America. She rolls up her sleeves and dives into the earthy business of apple sauce alchemy. In a quaint town that shuns city slicker success, she discovers the true spice of life, becoming a matriarch of her own making, with only a dash of romance with a local vet (the late Sam Shepard) to season the pot.
This romance simmers on the stove without boiling over, allowing the late Shepard's rustic charm to whisk J. C. away from the world of shoulder-padded sharks. "Baby Boom" stirs the pot of old-school romantic comedy, bringing to the table a dish that is both comfortingly nostalgic and seasoned with a sprinkle of modern wit.
Yet, it must be confessed, beyond Keaton's warm and winsome performance, it's the little girl who absconds with the audience's hearts. She's the sugar in the film's apple sauce, the undeniably sweet reminder of the '80s cinematic palate, where power suits and Wall Street wins often sidestepped the simple but enduring flavors of traditional values.
In this cinematic nursery, penned by Nancy Meyers (with a co-writing credit to the director), the film gleefully plays patty-cake with clichés. We watch as J. C. Wiatt, a woman so polished she could double as a mannequin for a cosmetics line, convinces her boss, Fritz Curtis (a robust Sam Wanamaker), of her undying commitment to corporate conquest.
Admittedly, the opening act tested the limits of my paternal patience, as it unfolded a spectacle that I, a father on the cusp of doubling his brood, found somewhat trying. Observing J. C.'s all-thumbs baby handling was akin to watching someone juggle eggs with a similar lack of finesse. Perhaps my view is tinted by the lens of fatherhood, or maybe it's the concession to cinema's enduring double standard: clumsiness in childcare is seemingly more palatable when it's the three men fumbling the baby.
As the tale unfolds, the infant transforms into a briefcase-bursting burden, unsettling J. C.'s boardroom ballet to the point of farce, until, at a crucial juncture, she decides to embrace the chaos. Her decision, though, feels as manipulated as a puppet on a string, thanks to the contrived unpleasantness of the potential adoptive parents. The narrative railroaded her into motherhood; the refusal to surrender her unexpected charge to likable alternatives is conspicuously absent.
Enter Diane Keaton, whose natural charm in such roles should be bottled and sold as elixir. Even when playing an accidental mother, her presence commands the screen-her authentic awkwardness becomes an asset, not a flaw. The story, too, finds its stride, offering a cheeky critique of corporate ladder-climbing and the balance of power within a patriarchal business world.
The plot takes a detour to Vermont, where Keaton's character finds her true calling not in the boardroom but in the heartland of America. She rolls up her sleeves and dives into the earthy business of apple sauce alchemy. In a quaint town that shuns city slicker success, she discovers the true spice of life, becoming a matriarch of her own making, with only a dash of romance with a local vet (the late Sam Shepard) to season the pot.
This romance simmers on the stove without boiling over, allowing the late Shepard's rustic charm to whisk J. C. away from the world of shoulder-padded sharks. "Baby Boom" stirs the pot of old-school romantic comedy, bringing to the table a dish that is both comfortingly nostalgic and seasoned with a sprinkle of modern wit.
Yet, it must be confessed, beyond Keaton's warm and winsome performance, it's the little girl who absconds with the audience's hearts. She's the sugar in the film's apple sauce, the undeniably sweet reminder of the '80s cinematic palate, where power suits and Wall Street wins often sidestepped the simple but enduring flavors of traditional values.