Netflix’s Thursday Murder Club: The Absolute Failure of Aging Stars and Cozy Crime

Hello everyone. Let’s talk about yet another instance of Hollywood (or in this case, Netflix with Spielberg’s Amblin blessing) daring to adapt a mega-selling book franchise into a film and doing just about everything possible to wobble between genius and mediocrity. The subject of the day: Richard Osman’s The Thursday Murder Club, a story beloved by millions of readers who clearly had nothing better to do than gorge themselves on genteel British crime capers written with the pacing of a Shakespearean tea party. And, apparently, not satisfied with books flying off shelves, they had to grab Pierce Brosnan, Helen Mirren, Ben Kingsley, and Celia Imrie, toss them into an adaptation, and hope the alchemy results in some magical formula that Netflix subscribers will actually finish watching before they’re distracted by the algorithm shoving Cobra Kai back down their throats.

Pierce Brosnan: From Bond to Bearded Geriatric Sleuth

Poor Pierce Brosnan. He’s forever remembered as James Bond, but here’s the plot twist: instead of saving the world with cool gadgets and smoldering charm, he’s been downgraded into a shabby-bearded union boss with nothing more threatening than arthritis and a suspicious appetite for solving murders. Naturally, Brosnan admitted he originally thought the role should belong to Ray Winstone, because-let’s be honest-no one pictures Pierce Brosnan bellowing about workers’ rights while investigating homicides between sips of prune juice. Yet here he is, lumbering his way into Netflix’s cozy-crime limelight like a prestige TV experiment nobody asked for.

In fairness, Brosnan’s self-awareness shines through-he clearly knows he’s not entirely the bloke the author might have had in mind. But hey, when Spielberg’s production company calls, you don’t hang up, do you? You slap on the fake beard, clutch your teacup, and pray audiences forgive you for being miscast faster than Twitter users forgive celebrity apologies.

Helen Mirren and Friends: The Retirement Avengers Initiative

The rest of the cast reads like a classy night out at the BAFTAs: Helen Mirren, Celia Imrie, and Ben Kingsley. Together, they form what can best be described as the senior-citizen branch of the X-Men; only instead of lasers, claws, or telepathy, their shared superpower is the ability to investigate crime scenes without anyone under 40 noticing they exist. Kingsley chirps about how the script is “a beautiful piece of idiosyncratically English work,” which in translation means it’s full of localized jokes about tea, buses, and stiff upper lips no American streaming subscriber fully understands but pretends to, just to feel intellectual.

Helen Mirren practically willed herself into the project because apparently she read the book and immediately cast herself in her head-as if anyone was going to tell Dame Helen she wasn’t the top choice. Celia Imrie, on the other hand, took superstition seriously and didn’t even touch the books until after signing the contract. That’s commitment-or paranoia, depending on how you diagnose it medically.

Critical Reception: Critics Can’t Decide if It’s Poirot or Parody

This is where things get messy. Critics can’t make up their minds whether the film is an affable romp or a feeble parody. On the one hand, we’ve got the grumpy critic brigade branding it “nefariously lazy” and “so flimsy it barely exists.” That’s not a gentle slap on the wrist-that’s the cinematic equivalent of a doctor telling you your cholesterol is a mess and then casually implying you won’t survive the next Christmas pudding. On the other hand, we’ve got someone bizarrely inspired, throwing it four stars, applauding its “camp” sensibility, and declaring that “a franchise is born.” If Netflix hears those words, you can bet we’ll get ten more of these chalky, geriatric thrill rides faster than you can say The Irishman II.

Meanwhile, the middling crowd compares these retirees to invisible superheroes. I’d argue invisibility was less a power and more a thematic choice-Netflix marketing barely pushed this film, and you’d be forgiven for scrolling past it without realizing Bond had joined the cast of Midsomer Murders: The Retirement Years.

Themes: Death, Comedy, and the Existential Reality of Bingo Night

The heavy-handed gravitas comes early: opening scenes in a hospice to remind both cast and audience that mortality isn’t just a philosophical concept-it’s Tuesday for this lot. And frankly, that’s the curious paradox in both book and movie versions: balancing tear-stained reminders of impending death with jokes about bus timetables and Yorkshire tea. Sir Ben insists it gives the movie some “ballast”-fair enough, because without ballast, this would drift off into Hallmark territory faster than my patience for forced sentimentality. Helen Mirren chimes in, reminding us that life involves death, but also comedy. Thanks, Doctor Obvious-a truth as old as the Grim Reaper doing stand-up at retirement homes.

Look, as a medical metaphor, you can’t bandage over death with a few witty lines of dialogue. You either pick a tone and commit to it, or you end up pandering to everyone and pleasing precisely no one.

Distribution Woes: Thirty Cinemas Is All You Get

And here’s where conspiracy-level absurdity comes in: the theatrical release is limited to only 30 cinemas. Thirty. As if Netflix declared: “We know cinema’s on life support, let’s not even bother giving it CPR, just let it flatline quietly.” Helen Mirren was rightly annoyed, lamenting how the film could’ve done well in theaters. Of course it could have-it’s British, quirky, and features seasoned actors. That’s catnip for cinema-goers over 50, the one demographic that still buys physical tickets. Instead, Netflix buries it for a week and then feeds it into the streaming machine where films exist for approximately 36 hours before being buried under true crime and algorithm-generated thrillers. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Netflix wants these movies to vanish quickly, like digital mayflies engineered to die for the cause of “content churn.”

Final Diagnosis

So here’s where I land. The Thursday Murder Club film adaptation is neither a complete disaster nor the second coming of Shakespearean whodunnits-it’s a cozy crime drama that plays safe, benefits enormously from its heavyweight cast, but falters under its own indecision. Is it comedy? Is it poignant drama? Is it marketing filler for Netflix’s quarterly earnings? Probably all three.

Like prescribing antibiotics for a viral infection, this adaptation is both overkill and underwhelming. Brosnan is game but miscast, Mirren is predictably luminous, Kingsley puts in his theatrical gravitas, and Imrie rounds out the squad with charm. The script tries to balance pathos with comedy, and the result feels like drinking decaf coffee: fine, but pointless. Will audiences care enough for a sequel? Possibly, especially given Netflix’s hunger for repeatable content and Britain’s insatiable appetite for cozy murders. Just don’t expect this to be the next Bond franchise-it’s more like watching the bonus level of a game after you’ve technically beaten the boss: fun, quirky, but you know you’re just killing time.

Verdict: A decent but uneven drama that will mildly amuse its target audience while leaving everyone else wondering why this cast signed up in the first place. It’s not terrible, but it’s not great either-it’s aggressively mediocre. And mediocrity, ladies and gentlemen, is the true killer here.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is entirely my opinion.

Source: Pierce Brosnan felt ‘huge responsibility’ towards Thursday Murder Club fans, bbc.com