Where is his sailor suit? Where is the little bug-eyed dog that the real Robert holds in his arms, a dog whose expression seems to scream for release? This doll looks like a plasticine meat loaf that got run over by a couple of semis. Part of the creepiness of the original doll is that it manages to combine age and innocence, including a pock-marked face that makes you think this child's toy might have had some congress with syphilitic prostitutes in foreign ports of call. Neither of the parents in the movie has the least appeal; they are defensive, emotionally constipated, whiny idiots who should never have been allowed to breed in the first place. Twenty-five minutes into the plot, you find yourself wondering where this thing called a plot is. It doesn't get any better. This sucker is turgid; it moves at the pace of a 15-part BBC adaptation of a long-forgotten British novel about people who have nothing much to do with their time. I wound up hoping Robert would kill all of them just to rescue us from the tedium.
