Dr. John Dolittle, MD is sick and tired of the human race: an entitled and ignorant lot they are. It isn’t like he, too, hasn’t feasted on the wealth that being a small-town physician has offered him: he lives on an opulent compound in a clean mansion, and he never wears sweatpants. But enough is enough. Animals don’t talk back the same way humans do, nor do they demand so much from him. Animals don’t demand anything except the same compassion they offer people. If he could somehow learn to talk to the animals then maybe he could achieve the fulfilled and peaceful life that he seeks. He enlists the help of a talking parrot, whose gift for mimicry helps him translate (he still speaks English, but the animals don’t). Of course, being Planet Earth’s premier veterinarian-slash-pet therapist isn’t without its challenges. Among his adventures, he breaks a seal named Sophia out of a circus prison so she can be reunited with her husband in the wild. He dresses her up Weekend At Bernie’s-style and passes her off as his infant-sized grandmother to the unsuspecting passengers in his taxi-slash-horse-drawn carriage. FOOLISH HUMANS! By the way, did I mention this all takes place at the turn of the last century? And before he releases her, he looks into her eyes and sings her a hypothetical song about if the two of them could be together. Can he connect with animals where he cannot with women? Will he ever find love? IS THE UNION OF MAN AND SEAL POSSIBLE IN TODAY’S POLITICAL CLIMATE? THE PUBLIC DEMANDS AN ANSWER.
I love reading stories about belligerent Hollywood drunks. You know, the sort that society doesn’t see much of anymore. Richard Burton; Oliver Reed; Richard Harris: the Hellraisers. Time and drink have all-but-eliminated the most public of these famous actors’ patrimony. Who would be the modern equivalents? Jimmy Fallon? Scott Disick? At least when the old guard were reckless they did it with panache. Rex Harrison isn’t any different. I can picture the Behind-the-Scenes featurette where he realizes he’s bit off more then he can chew (no pun intended): getting nipped and shit-on by his animal co-stars and swearing up a storm like a diva. He deserves that bottle of wine! Doctor Dolittle ’67 is typical of family films of this era: TOO DAMNED LONG (2-and-a-half hours plus an intermission… my wife was wondering what happened to the picture), and everything but the kitchen sink has been added to ensure MAXIMUM TICKET SALES among all demographics. And there really isn’t any plot to hang the spectacle all together: the story jumps from scene-to-scene with a limp wrapping-narrative about finding the elusive Giant Pink Sea Snail. And the Doctor does find it, after many unrelated sidebars presumably to keep the kiddies with short attention spans entertained. It’s cute and colourful and children might admire it more then I did (or children-at-heart: my wife has fond memories of the two-headed llama that is immediately sold into slavery). But I have to give credit where credit is due and seeing Rex singing a love song to a seal and kissing it before hucking it fully-clothed over a cliff elevated the film to a surreality I can get behind. They just don’t make them like they used to. How will the Robert Downey Jr-led reboot fare? Word is it didn’t do so great at test screenings, but this one didn’t either when it came out. Only time and drink will tell. RDJ can empathize.
//jf 1.1.20
theory of a daskeman 