The pompous, pathetic (and bathetic) opening here, and I’m talking the first two minutes, is so beyond reproach in its inflated histrionics, I almost gave up right there and then. But I refrained from jettisoning Cromwell (1970) in favour of a nap as I thought I just might be in for a hammy treat, regardless of the garbage factor.
I lasted another seven minutes before terminating this worthless tripe, in which Richard Harris’s eponymous quasi-revolutionary literally looks permanently constipated.
If we’re on the theme of excrement, the movie has a desperate stink to it, clearly wishing to ape the likes of peak David Lean as an epic biopic of a British titan, and it even features Alec Guinness.
Sadly, it’s shite.
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Wanderings and ... wonderings. 