Leonard Nimoy’s 1988 drama The Good Mother, with Diane Keaton and Liam Neeson, set out to probe family ties, sexual mores and the reach of the law. It aimed for gravity but quickly became as notable for its awkward choices as for its ambitions. Roger Ebert’s scathing review—calling the film confused and conflicted—helped fix that reading in the public imagination, and it still shapes how viewers approach the movie today.
A tighter, clearer film might have made its case. What we have instead is a work whose strengths—chiefly Keaton’s performance—are undermined by loose plotting, uneasy tonal shifts and legal setups that feel unearned. Below I summarize the plot and central performances, outline Ebert’s main objections, and consider what the film reveals about the danger of tackling thorny social issues without narrative discipline.
What the film does and who carries it
Keaton anchors the picture with a grounded, specific portrayal of a mother caught between love and responsibility. Her performance gives the story its emotional core; she inhabits the role with a mix of stubbornness, vulnerability and weary resolve. Neeson, by contrast, never convinces as a fully realized foil. The screenplay offers little to explain how a private relationship escalates into a public crisis, and that vagueness turns his character into a source of discomfort rather than a force the audience can judge.
Nimoy’s direction is oddly inconsistent. He stages intimate moments with an almost startling frankness, then retreats into a different register when the conflict becomes legal. That abrupt tonal pivot saps credibility: scenes that should feel inevitable instead land as jolts. Courtroom drama depends on causal momentum—the small, believable choices that lead to larger consequences—but this film often skips the connective tissue, asking viewers to accept punitive reactions the story hasn’t earned.
Ebert’s objections and where the film falters
Ebert focused on moral clarity and narrative plausibility. He argued that the screenplay flirts with important questions—parental rights, sexual freedom, institutional judgment—but never commits to the causal logic those questions demand. The result, he wrote, is uncertainty rather than insight: stakes that should build toward a reckoning feel improvised, and crucial beats hinge on implausible behavior.
Critics have also picked apart the film’s depiction of the legal process. The custody battle unfolds through offscreen decisions and sudden revelations, moments that require stronger setup to feel convincing. Without those foundations, the trial sequences read like an “idiot plot,” sustained by choices characters wouldn’t plausibly make. That kind of plot contrivance drains any ethical inquiry of force; when motivation is thin, moral argument collapses into melodrama.
One scene that achieves lift
The movie is not without achievement. Most reviewers, including Ebert, singled out a single scene that rings true: Anna’s visit to her grandparents, played by Ralph Bellamy and Teresa Wright. Here the film narrows its focus, gives the actors clear material, and allows quiet truths to emerge. It’s a scene written and performed with measured honesty, and it shows exactly what the film might have been—a work where emotional stakes and moral clarity grow organically from small, lived-in moments.
That effective sequence only sharpens the disappointment. It demonstrates the screenplay’s unrealized potential: where motivation is specific and consequences follow naturally, drama acquires weight. Elsewhere, amid sudden tonal shifts and thinly sketched cause-and-effect, the movie drifts.
Context and lasting questions
At its heart, The Good Mother wants to interrogate how communities and courts judge parenting and private conduct. Nimoy seems to aim for a critique of institutional overreach and a defense of personal freedom. But a provocative premise is not a substitute for the work of dramatizing why institutions and individuals behave as they do. When controversial moments are left narratively undefended, a film risks appearing to excuse or obscure harm rather than scrutinize it.
That’s the crux of Ebert’s charge: provocation without clarity does not advance understanding. Ambiguity can be a powerful artistic choice, but it must be earned—established by concrete scenes that make the ambiguity meaningful. Otherwise ambiguity functions as evasion.
A tighter, clearer film might have made its case. What we have instead is a work whose strengths—chiefly Keaton’s performance—are undermined by loose plotting, uneasy tonal shifts and legal setups that feel unearned. Below I summarize the plot and central performances, outline Ebert’s main objections, and consider what the film reveals about the danger of tackling thorny social issues without narrative discipline.0
A tighter, clearer film might have made its case. What we have instead is a work whose strengths—chiefly Keaton’s performance—are undermined by loose plotting, uneasy tonal shifts and legal setups that feel unearned. Below I summarize the plot and central performances, outline Ebert’s main objections, and consider what the film reveals about the danger of tackling thorny social issues without narrative discipline.1