The New Yorker by Anthony Lane
This is pitiful stuff, and, like the violence, it eats away at the blitheness for which Kingsman strives, leaving an aftertaste of desperation that the Connery of “Goldfinger,” say, would not have dreamed of bequeathing. The sadness is that Firth, alone in the film, does raise the spectre of those days, radiating a lightly amused reserve amid the havoc.
Kingsman is just plain fun, combining all the elements of a coming-of-age tale with a classic James Bond flick, topped off with its own, unique flair. The star-studded cast only amplifies the quality of the movie, which serves as a gateway to one of the next great spy franchises.