The only way Robert Zemeckis can cum is to build an entire film, big or small, great or shit, around a central technological jerk-off session.
The desperation and rage that Octavia tears out of herself is totally wasted on this brackish Blumhouse secretion.
And the prosthetic dick was too smooth. There was zero sense of texture or sub-surface translucence. They didn't even attempt to replicate pearly penile papules. Such rote craftsmanship.