Never fully comes to life, alas: Mr Burton reviewed

Mr Burton is a biopic of Richard Burton’s early years and an origins story, if you like. It stars Harry Lawtey as young Richard and Toby Jones as Philip Burton, the inspirational teacher whose name he would take. It’s a fascinating story. In essence, Richard’s drunkard father sold him for £50. But the film is too devoted and sedate to fly as a cinematic event. It has the feel of a Sunday evening television drama. Nothing wrong with that – although you could just stay home on a Sunday evening and watch television if that’s what you’re after. Cheaper, and much less bother.

Burton was born Richard Jenkins – the twelfth of 13 children – whose mother died when he was two years old. (From exhaustion, I suspect.) His father (Steffan Rhodri), a miner and 12-pints-a-day man, immediately booted him out to be brought up by an older sister (Aimee-Ffion Edwards) and her begrudging husband (Aneurin Barnard). That’s where he’s living when we first meet him at around 16. (Lawtey was in his late twenties at the time of filming so accepting him as a schoolboy isn’t easy but needs must.) This is Port Talbot where the landscape is dominated by industrial chimneys constantly belching out black smoke. However, it speaks less of the life of grind and grime that might await him and more of the perils of cheap CGI. The period details are otherwise lovely, I should add.

Richard attends the secondary school where Philip Burton teaches English. He first notes his raw talent when he gives him the prologue from Henry V to learn as a punishment and he not only returns word perfect the next day but says: ‘I bloody loved it!’ Shakespeare makes him feel alive.