The Thursday Murder Club

The adaptation of Richard Osman's best-selling novel arrives with the gentle clink of teacups and the thud of bodies, a contradiction it embraces with cheerful confidence: the murders are plentiful, but the heart rate rarely quickens. Directed by Chris Columbus and written by Katy Brand and Suzanne Heathcote, the film builds on the promise of a cozy crime—a comforting spectacle with a touch of blood—while erasing much of the novel's more pronounced melancholy. The result is refined, lively, and eminently convivial, fueled by the simple pleasure of watching accomplished professionals bounce off each other in a high-end retirement fantasy that resembles an amusement park with an archery range and three llamas.

The linchpin around which everything revolves is Helen Mirren as Elizabeth Best, with her clear diction, mischievous half-smiles, and indirect allusions to a past life in international relations that certainly did not involve embassies. It's a performance of pinpoint precision, all the funnier for being so cold, and one that anchors the complementary temperaments of the club: Pierce Brosnan finds his ease in the role of Ron, a former incendiary unionist and born agitator who has a soft spot for his reality TV-famous son; Ben Kingsley deliciously plays the sobriety card in the role of Ibrahim, a meticulous psychiatrist who uses his good manners as a weapon; and Joyce, played by Celia Imrie, a former nurse, expert baker, and enthusiastic new recruit, becomes our informal intermediary, the member most surprised to be having the time of her life. There is an alchemy here that makes the concept immediately compelling: these four characters are not “feisty old ladies,” but a functional team that knows exactly how to be underestimated.

Chris Columbus stages their world with broad, generous strokes. Coopers Chase is less a retirement village than a luxurious fantasy—majestic rooms, sun-drenched lawns, and decor that would make a real estate agent weep—with cinematographer Don Burgess bathing it all in a soft light that evokes “visual comfort,” even when the plot touches on death. The film is never ashamed of its material comfort: cake is a recurring motif, protests are accompanied by good coffee, and costumes feature tartan and silk scarves that nod to Helen Mirren's royal past. But this warmth comes at a price. By streamlining the novel's perspective, which relies on a diary, particularly Joyce's voice, the adaptation removes the bittersweet texture of Osman's aging that shines through the jokes. This is most noticeable in the emotional aftertaste: the film is delicious in the moment, but its aftertaste is lighter than that of the book.

The mechanics of the mystery are an orderly tangle of redevelopment plans and old sins. The death of co-owner Tony Curran tips the club from a closed case in the 1970s to the present, where Ian Ventham, a shady partner, eyes profits with an enthusiasm that brings the dead back to life. As suspects gravitate around the case—Polish contractor Bogdan, a tattooed ghost from the underworld, the son of a famous boxer with a troubled past—the script favors clarity over complexity, sometimes signaling clues with a high-visibility vest. Still, the supporting roles maintain a lively atmosphere: David Tennant savors wickedness like a hard-boiled candy; Richard E. Grant makes an appearance with flower shears and a touch of menace; Naomi Ackie gives Agent Donna De Freitas a lively ambition and sharp humor; Daniel Mays finds the classic rhythm of the exasperated cop; Jonathan Pryce infuses Stephen's dementia with quiet pain without falling into sentimentality; Tom Ellis, Geoff Bell, Henry Lloyd-Hughes, and Ingrid Oliver round out a cast that is frankly overqualified for such a lighthearted film.

What the film does perfectly is capture the club's superpower: invisibility. This isn't literally about capes and daggers, but the social fact that older people are sidelined from public life. Chris Columbus gently exploits this theme to make us laugh and take advantage of the situation, sending Elizabeth and Joyce into police corridors and corporate offices where their presence goes unnoticed until it's too late. The humor is broad, but the recurring joke about competence disguised as meticulousness works because the actors never look down on their characters. When Pierce Brosnan sets fire to a picket line or Ben Kingsley obtains a confession by being impeccably polite, we get a glimpse of the film it wants to be: a farce about experience trumping ego.

Yet we feel the constraints imposed by the film's two-hour running time. Themes that breathe on paper—Joyce's renewal through friendship, Elizabeth's ethical gray areas, Ron's awkward pride in his famous son—are sketched out where they could have been explored in depth. A miniseries might have allowed the contradictions to play out: comfort and cruelty, peaceful afternoons interrupted by a blunt instrument. Even the music—Thomas Newman's melodious imprints permeate the atmosphere—pushes the scenes toward lightness when silence or severity might have been more appropriate. The ending hints at something morally twisted and intriguing about Elizabeth; the film winks, tidies up, and pours another cup.

And yet it works. As an atmospheric piece, it's hard to resist. Helen Mirren calibrates the star power to the rhythm of the ensemble; Pierce Brosnan draws on his mischievous charm without resting on his laurels; Celia Imrie makes kindness kinetic; Ben Kingsley turns restraint into punchlines. The editing keeps the plates spinning, the red herrings are placed with fair play clarity, and Coopers Chase becomes a place we instantly understand: a final act chosen rather than endured, where purpose can be borrowed from a puzzle and where community is stitched together by small conspiracies.

If the film avoids the novel's more thoughtful thesis on mortality, it compensates by giving the elderly the dignity of protagonists rather than turning them into punchlines. The hospice wing exists, and Jonathan Pryce's scenes ensure that it is not just a sentimental backdrop, but the heart of the film beats in the orangery on Thursdays: friends who refuse to be sidelined, exchanging expertise and cakes, laughing under their breath at authority, and saving each other from loneliness. This may seem “low-risk” by thriller standards. In human terms, it's the whole game.

So yes, the angles are rounded, the suspense is light, and the solutions arrive with a clarity that will annoy purists. It's also true that many viewers will press “next episode” in their heads as soon as the credits roll, imagining how such a talented room could stretch itself over multiple cases. But in and of itself, The Thursday Murder Club is a carefully kept promise: a comforting, pleasantly complex, star-studded mystery that favors wit over fear, camaraderie over cruelty, and the radical idea that retirement is just another word for now you have time to meddle brilliantly. If Netflix wants a franchise, it has one, provided that future installments allow these characters to be as complex as their clues.

The Thursday Murder Club
Directed by Chris Columbus
Written by Katy Brand, Suzanne Heathcote
Based on The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman
Produced by Jennifer Todd, Chris Columbus
Starring Helen Mirren, Pierce Brosnan, Ben Kingsley, Celia Imrie, David Tennant, Jonathan Pryce, Naomi Ackie, Daniel Mays, Henry Lloyd-Hughes, Richard E. Grant, Tom Ellis, Geoff Bell, Paul Freeman, Ingrid, Joseph Marcell, Ruth Sheen
Cinematography: Don Burgess
Edited by Dan Zimmerman
Music by Thomas Newman
Production companies: Jennifer Todd Pictures, Maiden Voyage, Amblin Entertainment
Distributed by Netflix
Release date: August 22, 2025 (United States), August 28, 2025 (France)
Running time: 118 minutes

Viewed on August 29, 2025 on Netflix

Rating: 3.5/5

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