Ricki Lake has morphed from a pleasingly plump B-movie star (in John Waters' Hairspray) into a fresh-faced crunchy-granola documentarian, shown with director Abby Epstein. Photos courtesy of New Line Home Entertainment

Oh, Ricki, how I love you. I loved you in Hairspray – the real one, the original, directed by John Waters with no sign of John Travolta anywhere. I loved how you struggled with your weight. It was so real, so honest, so human! And as with many actresses of size, you starred in a movie that addressed it head-on, Babycakes, in which you nailed the eminently doable Craig Sheffer. I loved that.

I loved you a little less when you did Mrs. Winterbourne, and a little less still when you had your own talk show. There was more than a little of the Springer-wannabe vibe there. But you soldiered on, remembering guests' names and strolling up and down the steps in the audience without tripping. You dressed smartly regardless of your weight. You were a perfect hybrid of the polished aspiring A-lister and Everygirl.

And now, in your longtime pet project The Business of Being Born, my love for you deepens. I love your earnestness, your cute little hats and your makeup-free face. I love your courage: We see everything! You can't be a shy mama if you're going to let millions of people watch you give birth in a bathtub, can you?

It appears that Hollywood's girl-who-almost-could, Ricki Lake, has found her niche and donned the producer's hat in The Business of Being Born, a provocative documentary that explores some of the 20th century's biggest myths about childbirth. Some of the factoids aren't surprising: that giving birth lying down, for example, is for a doctor's convenience and is completely inorganic for an expectant mother. Other tidbits, however, are shocking. Who knew that few OB/GYN's start their practices without having observed or participated in an ordinary birth?

So Ricki takes us along for a wild tour of midwifery, obstetrics and the vicissitudes of insurance coverage. A lot of it is the touchy-feely stuff a happily nulliparous woman such as myself can't really absorb. Talk of being fully in touch with your body through the experience of childbirth and clearing the path to the all-important early bonding experience with a newborn. Talk of decision-making and empowerment.

What sucks me in is the opportunity, as with many documentaries, to indulge my voyeuristic streak. For many people, this film won't pass the Wheaties test. We see more than one birth, including the bathtub birth of Ricki's second child and, in a surprise plot twist, an emergency C-section for a woman who had planned a home birth. There's nothing Calgon-commercial-like about childbirth. We hear the desperation, the see the support of frightened but admirably progressive hubbies, admire the meditative guidance of the midwives. When you look past the blood and gore and messy gracelessness, there's a hypnotic quality to the choreography of a home birth.

Okay, so we get it: home birth good, hospital birth bad but sometimes necessary. Much of the movie's underpinning is basic Women's History 101. It's the case studies that make it fascinating. It's seeing our homegirl Ricki reborn as a crunchy-granola activist who wants desperately for mainstream America to rethink its attitudes toward birth. I'm right there with her, and I can even get past the crunchy-granolaness of it all, too. These midwives are trained professionals, folks. The big difference between them and the scary doctors is that they, apparently, aren't punching a timecard. Take one point from The Man and give it to Mother Nature.