is still bad, a film called speech of a king, quote Shakespeare every three seconds, and forgets to fathom the scope of a royal speech, or measure the weight of a crown.
At first there is indeed the king's body. The pink face, the skin of an English Colin Firth encased in gray clothes. Always a mouth fixed in a face, a face which is slightly higher than the British phlegm. And when the words refuse, the man is alone with the unlikely form of microphone, the eyes of the crowd referring to his royal hiccup silence cumbersome. It is not speech therapist need to see is a sports coach. Our King is in shirtsleeves exercises, slowing down, blushed, roared. Between the body of destitute prince and the glorious body of the king, there is this marked path of stuttering the word that Tom Hooper's film makes us borrow peacefully.
The trouble comes with the scenery. As in the apartment of Dr. Logue ago in The Speech of a king effect wallpaper. The reliefs are carefully rolled, carefully decorated the walls. Relevant way, you say, talking about life of a royal family paneled with strips of conventions. But theater we have here is coarse, the faces are distorted, and Churchill was awful. The body loses in relief and history of stuttering king loses in depth. We strayed into the confidences of a prince psychologizing pinched by his nanny, scolded by his dad, corseted by the legacy of his rank.
At no time, the question of silence and speech shall not exceed in scope the little theater of the court. More than a communication medium, radio is at the end of the film during a containment (the small room designed by Dr. Logue) and an outcome just nice staff. No more? Not any more.
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