Ruth Stoops is at the end of her wits. Thrown out of her last place, she has only a paper bag left. It hides either a liquor bottle, or emanates the soothing vapours from spray-paint cans and glue. Fingered by the long arm of the law, she is told by the police surgeon that she is pregnant once again. She has already given up two children for adoption, two others are being brought up by her brother Tony. The exasperated judge, before whom she is appearing for the 16th time, and who has sent her to a drying-out clinic at public expense six times already, gives the state attorney a free hand: should Ruth not abort the child, she will be charged with endangering her unborn child and be imprisoned at least until her child is born.

While in custody she is approached by a charming quartet of fanatic pro-lifers, who want to use Ruth for their own good. To this end, Gail Stoney puts up Ruth with her family. At first, Ruth is beside herself. Not only does someone put up her bail money, she can also have a bath, a meal and a bed. But she still wants to get rid of the child. When, in her host's home, she finds an inexhaustible supply of solvents and beats Mom's little darling in a glue-induced high, she is thrown out – and lands in the arms of the no less determined pro-choice lobby.

They all pretend to help Ruth, until it eventually dawns on her somewhat slowed-up brain, that she is just being used by them to send a message to their opponents and the rest of the (American) world. Ruth has no political aims, she just has to make sure that she doesn't become unstuck. But the situation is more serious than she could ever have wished: both sides have declared a National State of Emergency on Ruth's fate, and that of her eight-week-old foetus.
 

• Europeans might think that this bitter satire on the North American Abortion War is over-exaggerated, but they would choke on their popcorn and nachos if they knew that, although Citizen Ruth was written as a comedy, it didn't have to be all that exaggerated for foreign cinema-goers to wet themselves laughing.

The concept of a woman, who is not concerned about all the "highly important" political stuff, but only with basic survival – preferably with spray-paint fumes – contributes greatly to the success of the film, as do the portrayals of the various lifestyles. Not overdone, as the opening Zucker-Abraham-Zucker credits might have suggested, but indicative. Ruth is not suited either to the white trash image with new hair-do of the bourgois-religious family clan, nor the South American natural fiber clothes of the politically correct. This is owed to the make-up artists and the acting abilities of the star of the show, Laura Dern. She has for ten years been stuck with the role of the blonde-next-door, as in her most famous roles in Blue Velvet, Wild at Heart and Jurassic Park. It is wonderful the way Ruth's attempts to fulfil this image fail magnificently.

Officially this film, like If These Walls Could Talk, caricatures the formenters of social unrest, and certainly the women's libbers get their come-uppance. But it is soon evident that the film makers have thought up much more drastic images for the religious right. However, our heroine belongs to neither one or the other side, and egocentrically thinks only of herself.

In the world of cinema, women's libbers tend consist of gays and lesbians. An obvious queen gives well-meaning but strategically clumsy advice, and the local branch is run by a lesbian couple. While the religious right-wing church members sing pathetically in front of their babysaver flag, the lesbians sing to the Moon.

The double morals of the religious crowd is pointed out in a macabre way, e.g. by invoking the subject of abuse. Mother Stoops, who has been absent for years, joins the rightist fanatics where Ruth is in hiding and dismisses a charge against one of her ex-lovers as history. And the oily massage, which Burt Reynolds as national leader Blaine Gibbon receives at the hands of an adolescent young man he once saved from the surgeon's knife also says a lot.