DOCTOR DOLITTLE (1967) **1/2 An eccentric English man of science hooks up with a devoted Irish drinker and in no time at all they're deciphering animal languages. Well, what else could happen, really? Far too many showtunes (one of the worst of which naturally won an Oscar) literally had my daughter watching with her hands over her ears, but she's right-Richard Fleischer presents a movie with a unique look, more than enough to make it worth sustaining whatever drivel comes out of the audio track. And it's not all entirely drivel, but it's more catchy than good, which is a bad balance, but, you know, its heart is in the right place. Rex Harrison manages not to look like a lunatic, which is quite an accomplishment considering the role. Anthony Newley appears to have a genuine adoration for functional whiskey flasks, and Samantha Eggar spends much of the second half of the film cavorting around an exotic island in her underwear (which could now pass for an evening dress, they were more elegant then, or something). Hugh Lofting's lofty thoughts on imperialism and cruelty to animals are not at all buried, Fleischer plays them for all their glory. Sad to think that Tony Blair's sold out the foxes along with everything else. The Animal Liberation Front hasn't though, and I hear that they watch this film at their annual cotillion ball. No, really. It's a challenging story, enough to make the poet laureate of the Hollywood Funk Underground Booty Liberation Movement (Anthony Keidis) screech "Doctor Dolittle, what's your story?" during the Red Hot Chili Peppers' animal opus (one of 'em), "Naked in the Rain." The story? The story is something like (1) right of return for all Dolittles, and (2) follow that snail.
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