Any movie that mentions “Rasputin Dance Choreographer” in the credits deserves at least a closer look. And, to be fair, “The King’s Man”—a prequel to Matthew Vaughn’s whacked-up series about elite British spies headquartered in Savile Row—has more than a twirling monk in its impeccably tailored sleeve.
It especially has Ralph Fiennes to make sure the center holds up. As Orlando, Duke of Oxford and the founder of the spy agency, Fiennes may read more cuddly than stern, but he gives a surprising gravitas to this flibbertigibbet film. Try that if you get a headbutt from an angry goat.
‘The King’s Man’ is set during World War I, as Orlando and his allies race to stop a nefarious cabal from wiping out Europe’s ruling class. we are told is world peace. (A mission that was apparently hidden from the characters in the two previous films.) International skulduggery fills the frame, the hopelessly complicated screenplay (by Vaughn and Karl Gajdusek) swings from mad (a mountain cave guarded by the aforementioned cattle) to reverent (a impressive battlefield rescue, realized without digital assistance).
Buffering the stunning action scenes, Ben Davis’s stately widescreen images allow our eyes to refocus. Gusto appearances, including Gemma Arterton as a nanny who runs a secret network of servant-spies, help to reconcile the craziness of the plot. However, the ever-simmering gay erotica of the franchise comes across when Rasputin (an ecstatic demonic Rhys Ifans) is around.
“Take off your pants and sit down,” he orders Orlando, before licking a battle wound on the aristocrat’s thigh. Judging by Fiennes’s face, the Duke’s only wish at the moment is a strong cup of tea.
The King’s Man
R for licking legs, drinking opium and dancing dirty. Running time: 2 hours 11 minutes. In theatres.
