The Kingsman … Not The King’s Speech

I just sat through a two-hour screening of “Kingsman: The Secret Service.” I was excited to see a new Colin Firth movie, excited to see what I thought would be a kitschy sendup of every spy movie since James Bond. What could have been a fun evening of lighthearted spoof turned out to be perfectly capped by the cold rain outside the theater.

The premise of the film is that an evil genius, preposterously played by a lisping Samuel L. Jackson, is prepping the world for self-destruction through a type of technological mind control. His goal: to cull the population so global warming is curbed.

By the end of the film, I was convinced that someone had implanted the same mind-control technology behind Colin Firth’s ear and forced him to take part in his acting career’s self-destruction. It’s not surprising to see Jackson or Michael Caine stooping to their sophomoric parts for a payday, but it was sad to see an actor I had respected do it.

The young actor who carries the movie, Taron Egerton as spy-in-training “Eggsy” Unwin, deserves better than this part affords him.

In one particularly heavy-handed moment, an imprisoned princess offers the hero “more than a kiss” if he saves the world. She then makes it clear by promising anal sex. Why, why, add that extra sequin to ruin the dress? And particularly ironic, the movie ends after a shot of her bare rear end, then fades to black with a dedication to someone’s mother.

I think I would have enjoyed this movie more if I had been surrounded in the theater by the audience for whom it was written. At least if I had listened to a bunch of 13-year-old boys laughing at anal sex jokes and exploding heads, I wouldn’t have been forced to ponder the meaning of a crowd of adults who found it entertaining.

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