There are few spectacles more tragic—or more divine—than the slow, incandescent erosion of a gifted soul. Mr. Burton, the 2025 cinematic meditation on the life of Richard Burton, is not merely a film, nor even a biographical retelling—it is a grand threnody to the soul of man burdened with greatness. And in the hands of Harry Lawtey, that burden becomes a thing of unspeakable majesty.
The modern biopic, more often than not, leans toward an unwholesome gluttony. It gorges itself on costume, scandal, and period furniture, believing that verisimilitude lies in mimicry and plot. But Mr. Burton does something entirely different—something braver and more sacred. It looks not at what Richard Burton did, but who he became beneath the armour of theatrical success and tabloid fame. It trades narrative for revelation, choosing to illuminate not the chronology of a life, but the contours of a soul at war with itself.
At the heart of this ecclesiastical venture stands Harry Lawtey, whose performance is not a portrayal, but a transfiguration. There is no artifice, no strain, no desperate thespian showboating. Rather, Lawtey descends—yes, descends—into the infernal crevices of Burton’s torment, bringing back with him the fire of a man who could command Lear with the voice of a god, yet crumbled like dust before his own reflection. Lawtey’s eyes alone, in moments of silence, achieve more than most entire scripts manage with armies of words. He has not studied Burton to impersonate him; he has become Burton to understand him. This, I daresay, is not acting. This is theology.
But let us speak honestly about what Mr. Burton dares to depict: the unbearable paradox of genius. Burton, as presented here, is no hero. He is no villain either. He is a man—flesh and folly, thunder and ruin. He drinks not only from bottles but from the poisoned chalice of his own fame. He hungers, not for applause, but for absolution. The film does not sanctify him, nor does it crucify him; it reveals him. It allows him to remain unsolved, unredeemed, and therefore unforgettably human.
The film’s direction, far from overreaching, shows the wisdom of restraint. The camera lingers not to flatter but to confess. Scenes unfold not with orchestral grandeur, but with the hush of liturgy. We are given time—not to consume Burton, but to contemplate him. The cinematography understands darkness—not merely as an absence of light, but as the necessary cradle in which certain truths must be born. The script, elegant and sparse, often withholds more than it delivers, inviting the viewer into that rarest of cinematic experiences: listening.
It would be an injustice, however, to speak only of Burton the man, or Lawtey the vessel. One must also consider Mr. Burton as an argument against our age’s obsession with clarity. In a world that demands every story be neat, every personality either saint or scoundrel, this film dares to suggest that the most vital lives are those that remain unresolved. It reminds us that the human being is not a thesis to be proven, but a psalm to be wrestled with.
What Lawtey achieves here will be studied—must be studied—for decades to come. Not for its technique (though it is rich with it), nor for its resemblance (though it is uncanny), but for its courage. He has looked into the abyss of a man both beloved and broken, and rather than flinch or romanticise, he has remained. And in doing so, he has given us not simply Richard Burton, but a mirror into ourselves.
In the final analysis, Mr. Burton is not about fame or theatre or self-destruction. It is about the divine terror of being known—by others, by history, by Providence, and most of all, by oneself. It is a film one does not watch, but survives. And when the last scene fades, what remains is not applause, nor even sorrow, but silence—the kind of silence one finds in old churches and ruined cathedrals. The silence of something holy having passed through.
A bloody fucking miraculous feat, indeed, if I may be forgiven the phrase.
