iana’s review published on Letterboxd:
There’s a scar on King Henry’s face. Whether that minor injury was sustained on a battlefield or in a drunken brawl is never addressed, it’s just there. Usually, it wouldn’t be that remarkable, but when that scar is on Timothée Chalamet—the poster boy for softness—you take notice. In his enviably fast ascent, Chalamet has mastered the art of emotional dexterity, flitting between euphoria and devastation with unmatched ease. But David Michôd’s The King requires something different from him. Like a small scar on an otherwise blemish-free face, Chalamet’s wayward prince is antique porcelain made imperfect by a single crack: hardened, aged, scathed.