The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
‘Kingsman’ sequel is cynical, offensive
“Kingsman: The Secret Service” caught many by surprise when it was released in 2014. On the surface, it’s an updated, cheekier riff on Bond — the British gentleman spy gets an upgrade when a lower-class Cockney lad gets recruited into their ranks, utilizing his street smarts and brute force. It was shockingly violent, soundtracked to classic pop hits, and the one-two punch of director Matthew Vaughn’s dizzying camera work and star Taron Egerton’s crinkly-eyed charm pummeled audiences into thinking it was all “fun.”
However, the sequel, “Kingsman: The Golden Circle,” really shows the seams on this franchise. In upping the ante we can see that this whole affair is just a truly cynical, painfully retrograde pastiche of meaningless pop nostalgia wrapped around a nonsensical plot, sprinkled with a dusting of repulsive sexism. Fun.
In “Golden Circle,” Kingsman agent Eggsy (Egerton) seemingly has it all together as a gentleman spy, cozied up with his Swedish princess girlfriend Tilde (Hanna Alstrom), before it all falls apart at the hands of a kooky entrepreneur villain much like it did in the first film. This time, our disruptor of industry is Poppy Adams ( Julianne Moore, stooping far below her standard), an intrepid drug lord camped out in a retro neon ’50s paradise deep in the Cambodian jungle. She decides to hold the world hostage by infecting drug users with a mysterious virus in order to push through legalization of all drugs.
Since the U.S. president (Bruce Greenwood) decides to play chicken with Poppy, only the private security force of the Kingsmen, with an assist from the Kentucky-based Statesmen, can bring Poppy’s evil plot down.
“Kingsman” is based on the comic books by Mark Millar and Dave Gibbons, while Vaughn and Jane Goldman wrote the screenplays for both “Secret Service” and “Golden Circle.” Yes, a female writer can have a hand in scripting a screenplay that dehumanizes women, who are merely helpers and sex objects here, subject to horrible degradation. Even Poppy, in her Stepford wife fantasy, lets men do the dirty work.
In this world, nothing matters. This film is so flippant, it espouses a particularly potent strain of candy-colored nihilism, where every nostalgic cultural symbol becomes lethal. Is Vaughn making a point about death by nostalgia? Nah, this movie isn’t smart enough. It’s just a gas-guzzling combustion engine fueled by the shallowest of pop references, strung together in an incredibly stupid plot, peppered with adolescent body humor. It’s pointless pablum. Pass.