Richard Burton never got around to writing an official set of memoirs before his untimely, alcohol-hastened death in 1984, though the star’s posthumously published diaries are among the great volumes of their kind in the showbiz library: sometimes brutally candid about himself, often savagely catty about others, and reflective of a wry, wicked mind behind the boorish antics that kept him in the headlines. There’s little of that wit or mischief to be found in Marc Evans‘ quiet, earnestly soft-hearted biopic “Mr. Burton,” though that discrepancy is at least partly the point.
Dramatizing the Welshman’s formative early years as an actor, from his rough working-class adolescence to the
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