Behind the Burly Q, Breath Made Visible, Mother and Child

GO  MOTHER AND CHILD Rodrigo Garcia has admirably distinguished himself through his commitment to creating intelligent roles for his heavily distaff casts. Like his debut, Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her (2000), and Nine Lives (2005), Mother and Child is a compassionate, multithreaded tale about the lives of everyday women. Driven by the strength of the performances, Garcia's latest takes potentially banal subjects — what defines "family," biological parents versus those who adopt — and transforms them into something powerful. The film focuses on three women: defensive physical therapist Karen (Annette Bening), who lives with her ailing mother and writes letters to the daughter she gave up for adoption when she was 14; steely attorney Elizabeth (Naomi Watts), adopted at birth and free of emotional attachments to anyone; and high-strung bakery owner Lucy (Kerry Washington), who, unable to conceive, begins the process of adoption with her husband. In a film with several graceful touches — Mother and Child stands out for its color-blind casting and the casualness of its interracial relationships — Garcia's strenuous avoidance of another reproductive choice disappoints all the more. None of the pregnant women, regardless of age or financial security, discusses abortion. The sanctity of the titular connection is real, as are the characters Garcia creates. But in not addressing an option that these women surely must have grappled with, Garcia's laudable film stops short of being great. (Melissa Anderson) (Arclight Hollywood, Landmark)

MULTIPLE SARCASMS Anyone who tells you he has a great career, perfect marriage and superior parenting skills does not. And if he then declares that he's suddenly going to abandon all of that for a belated playwriting career, look out. The old midlife crisis plot gains no freshness when staged back in 1979, though Timothy Hutton's wide plaid pants, his leather-booted, beret-wearing wife (Dana Delany), and fern-infested Upper West Side apartment are impeccably period-rendered. Multiple Sarcasms, directed and co-written by first-timer Brooks Branch, appears constructed from the old sets, costumes and extras from Annie Hall. For most of the film, whiny, self-absorbed architect Gabriel holes up in his bathroom with a tape recorder, pouring out his discontents for his manuscript, when not pining for his BFF (Mira Sorvino). A manic twin to Hutton's cul-de-sacked loser in Lymelife, Gabriel comes across as a selfish bastard surrounded by three excessively patient females (including precious 12-year-old daughter played by India Ennenga). Multiple Sarcasms — also the name of the Feiffer-esque play he'll write — reeks of the same selfishness. A vanity production by Branch, previously a studio-branding consultant, it's the kind of odious, self-validating wish fulfillment that actually makes you appreciate the more generous self-absorption of Henry Jaglom films. At one point, Gabriel's agent (Stockard Channing) warns tartly against "this fucking whining white guy shit." But the movie doesn't listen. (Brian Miller) (Monica, Playhouse, Sunset 5, Town Center)

GO  OSS 117: LOST IN RIO In gleefully ripping on both classic spy movies and T&A-obsessed Frenchmen, OSS 117: Lost in Rio reasserts the primary definition of "burlesque": broad parody, rather than broads in pasties. Seemingly derivative of both James Bond and his groovy flipside Austin Powers, the titular agent (played by Jean Dujardin) most closely resembles himself: The film is based on a popular series of books by Jean Bruce, the first of which predates Bond by four years. It is 1967, and 117 is sent to Rio to retrieve a microfilm containing the names of French SS collaborators. Director Michel Hazanavicius (also behind 2006's OSS 117: Cairo Nest of Spies) commits to the festivities with gusto, if a creeping lack of imagination. The look of the reference-heavy film, mostly shot on location in Brazil, is impeccably cheesy, but the Nazi humor and awkward sexist and racist eruptions smell a little stale. Yet given time, the film develops an energy all its own. Hazanavicius knows his sight gags (an extremely low-speed chase involving two hospital patients in butt-baring gowns is one highlight) and silly set pieces (a North by Northwest spoof involving Christ the Redeemer is another). But it is Dujardin who wins the day — and eventually, of course, the gimlet-eyed girl — as the perfect, preening fool. (Michelle Orange) (Nuart)