- Rex Harrison in Doctor Dolittle
A week and a half ago I got doored while riding my bike. Apart from my bike’s frame I didn’t break or fracture anything, though I was sufficiently bruised for the ER doctor to prescribe six days’ worth of hydrocodone. I spent most of those days asleep and was still woozy for several days after that. To my pleasant surprise, though, I found this made at least one movie I had to watch for work seem more tolerable than I would have thought otherwise. (I’m not saying which.) One effect of hydrocodone, I learned, is that it renders pretty much every story a bedtime story. When you’re on your back, there’s something oddly soothing about seeing other people play at fiction for your enjoyment—it’s a bit like having someone read to you.
If it hadn’t been for the 70-millimeter presentation, I likely would have failed to recognize the specific details of Doctor Dolittle while woozy from pain pills. By the same token, if it weren’t for the pain pills, I likely wouldn’t have made it through any of Leslie Bricusse’s songs—or, for that matter, the film’s glaring and unpardonable racism.
