What would you do when, thirty years after the fact, the cancer-stricken mistress (Catherine Deneuve) who drove your father to suicide reappears, begging for forgiveness? In the case of Claire (Catherine Frot) — the titular childbirth assistant skilled in the art of munificent conduct — it’s time to clean out the spare bedroom. (Deneuve has made a career out of playing these types of eccentric arch-kooks; she could act the role in her sleep.) For two-thirds of the picture, Frot’s singular benevolence contributes to a gradual buildup of unconditional acceptance; it’s the only means director Martin Provost has of advancing the plot of this made-for-TV tearjerker that falls short of arousing so much as one sniffle. This critic was shocked to learn that this disease-of-the-week entry came from the same mind that brought us the faultless biopic Séraphine. With Olivier Gourmet, Quentin Dolmaire, and Mylène Demongeot. (2017) — Scott Marks
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