Watchmen review: Dr Manhattan's cock
It is soon apparent that quasi-CGI superhero Dr Manhattan's blue appendage serves no purpose other than to underscore his awesome masculinity. It will pass no urine or jizz, it will never rise to attention: it is just there, an emblem of Dr M's unearthly mightiness, a sentinel of manly authority. When one of his doppelgangers makes love to his loyal assistant and girlfriend, Laurie Jupiter, he does so not through the agency of his glowing schlong but by stimulating her with electrical charges from his hands. It's as if he is pressing her with an iron that's prone to cutting out in a shower of sparks. The camera shyly averts its gaze from his groin area, one that requires no showering or waxing incidentally; but you may be assured that there can be no tumescence, which is just as well because even the space of an Odeon big screen is finite.
Nor does Dr M's cock sway pendulously as a trunk of its proportion would do during movement, such as walking: rather it just hangs down like one of those oblong bird feeders one finds in the better maintained garden, rather inertly. Happily, no blue tit or other feathered friend is ever likely to be drawn to Dr M's ambiguous, rather screwed-up nuts.
Filmgoers who are not fanboys/girls of Alan Moore's creation may wonder why Dr M does not simply wear a loincloth or a fetching thong. This is a good question. After all, he does put on a suit for a talk show. So he is cognisant of human decency. One can only conclude that though Dr M sees no difference between a live or a dead person, and meditates on Mars, he is a naturist at best or a filthy exhibitionist and flashing perv at worst. If the latter, saddos who cream themselves on comic novels should be treated with especial caution.
Oh, and then there's the movie ...
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