The Kid Who Would Be King is a film for our times indeed, being about the radicalisation of inner-city schoolkids by a charismatic madman spouting dark age superstition.
Ian McEwan has made a career of writing about seemingly small moments that turn out to be pivotal. From a chance reading of an explicit letter in Atonement to a fateful meeting during a ballooning accident in Enduring Love, he’s acutely interested in the psychological impact that these instances have on his protagonists. These character studies have been adapted for the screen with mixed results, and On Chesil Beach sadly jettisons the taut, agonised regret of McEwan’s novella for earnest melodrama, clumsy symbolism, and an unforgivably contrived conclusion.
Full review for The Wee Review here.
Okay, okay, so it takes place in a kaleidiscopic, pastel-coloured carnival of whimsy and overwhelmingly-white Montmartre that does not exist, and never did; even in its arty Chat Noir, Can-Canning heydey. It's been rightly criticised for not reflecting the multi-cultural nature of modern Paris, and the plot is admittedly slight.....
But it's also the most joyous, idiosyncratic and downright fun movie I think I have ever seen. Most of my other favourite films tend towards the bleak, but the first…
"I was seven years old when I first tasted semen."
This is the startling first line of the nameless man who sits down in the confession box to be heard by Father James Lavelle (Brendan Gleeson). The man goes on to tell of systematic abuse by a now-dead priest. He then tells Fr. James that he will kill him a week on Sunday as he is a good man. Killing a bad priest would be nothing. Killing a good one?…