Few things in life could compare to the episode that occurs as Dolittle, the latest film starring beloved actor Robert Downey Jr., draws to a close. There he is—the “billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, genius”—standing in front of a CGI dragon with both of his arms up.
taking bagpipes out of her rectus. You question at that point if it is your obligation as a fellow human being to contact Marvel and ask them to reinstate Downey. Instead of performing colonoscopies on fanciful species, I’d much rather see a dozen terrible films where he’s flying around in tin costumes.
Dolittle is a train crash of such epic proportions that it couldn’t have been avoided no matter how many squabbling authors, meddling studio executives, or constant financial flow there were. The script is nonexistent, just like the drive to produce even a mediocre movie.
The CGI is poorly executed, and the performances lack inspiration. I struggled to think of even one positive thing to say about it, but the best I can come up with is that it’s brief, so the misery passes rather soon.