Ever wonder what “Scrubs” would’ve been like if Zach Braff’s fledgling-doctor character was psychotic instead of goofy? I get the feeling John Enbom, screenwriter of “The Good Doctor,” has.
Orlando Bloom subverts his vanilla pretty-boy image as Dr. Martin Blake, a cipher of a young man who’s embarking on a hospital residency under the guidance of Rob Morrow’s Dr. Waylans. He’s interested — maybe a little too interested — in applying early for an infectious-diseases fellowship. He’s not great at parties.
He’s also disturbingly unconcerned with the health complaints of a Spanish-speaking man, whom Blake puts on a medicine he’s allergic to and then blames the mistake on a nurse.
But when a comely teenage girl (Riley Keough) with a kidney infection comes under his care, Blake comes alive. His boyish grin and bedside manner are borderline flirtatious, much to her delight — but he cures her all too soon, and she’s sent home and out of his life.
Soon, Blake’s finding a way to subtly poison his young patient, landing her back in the hospital — and, accidentally, teetering near death. When a sleazy, pill-popping orderly (Michael Pena) reveals he knows Blake’s secret, things quickly unravel.
Director Lance Daly (“Kisses”) unfurls this nasty little tale slowly, allowing you to feel, at first, the way that Waylans does — maybe this guy just hasn’t found his footing yet. But when you see Blake at home in his sterile apartment, staring straight ahead, or hear him sputtering about how he deserves unquestioning respect from Taraji P. Henson’s take-no-crap nurse, you realize something’s seriously amiss.
Which puts you one ahead of police investigator J.K. Simmons, or seemingly any other doctors. As long as Blake’s wearing the white coat and looking handsome and concerned, no one seems able to doubt him.
Whether you take it as a comment on our rote acceptance of authority figures or just a deliciously creepy character study, you’ll come away from “The Good Doctor” wanting to keep religiously eating that apple a day.