The Thursday Murder Club Movie Review: Golden Years, Faded Thrills

There’s something undeniably appealing about watching distinguished actors solve murders while sipping tea in pastoral English settings. Chris Columbus’s The Thursday Murder Club arrives with all the ingredients for cozy mystery perfection: Helen Mirren’s regal presence, Pierce Brosnan’s post-Bond charm, and Richard Osman‘s bestselling source material. Yet like biting into an elaborately decorated cookie only to discover shapeless mush beneath the frosting, this Netflix adaptation produced by Steven Spielberg’s Amblin Entertainment delivers visual splendor while leaving audiences hungry for actual substance.

The backstory reads like its own mystery: originally set for Ol Parker to write and direct, then delayed by Hollywood strikes, eventually landing with Columbus (Pixels) and co-writers Suzanne Heathcote & Katy Brand. The film follows four irrepressible retirees at Cooper’s Chase retirement community who solve cold cases for entertainment. Elizabeth (Mirren, Eye in the Sky) is a retired spy with suspicious connections. Ladies man Ron (Pierce Brosnan, Black Bag) brings union man grit and temper. Confirmed bachelor Ibrahim (Ben Kingsley, Operation Finale) applies psychiatric precision to criminal puzzles. Widowed retired nurse Joyce (Celia Imrie, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel) seems sweetest but might be snappiest of all. When real murder strikes their upscale village, casual sleuthing becomes deadly serious.

The enviable cast reads like a dream dinner party guest list, yet each performer seems to inhabit a different movie entirely. Mirren approaches the material like a lighter Prime Suspect, while Kingsley and Brosnan ham it up like they’re in a racier Clue. Only Imrie captures the requisite balance of sweetness and bite that gave Osman’s novels their distinctive punch. She steals every scene with warmth that conceals razor-sharp observation. The supporting players fare better in smaller doses. Naomi Ackie (Whitney Houston: I Wanna Dance with Somebody) brings wide-eyed enthusiasm as PC Donna De Freitas, whose chemistry with Daniel Mays‘s gruff inspector creates the kind of partnership that spawns successful BBC series.

From a craft perspective, the film looks fantastic. Cinematographer Don Burgess (Forrest Gump) makes Cooper’s Chase gleam with golden-hour softness, selling retirement as genteel British fantasy. Thomas Newman’s (Skyfall) characteristically elegant score weaves danger throughout, keeping viewers engaged even when mystery elements wane. Columbus and his technical team deliver comfort cinema that succeeds as background viewing while failing as engaging storytelling.

Columbus dumps viewers directly into Cooper’s Chase without proper orientation, treating the characters as if we’re already intimate with their world. Even his direction of the first two Harry Potter films provided more substantive character building from the outset. The mystery itself lacks the intricate plotting that makes Osman’s novels satisfying. Clues feel arbitrary rather than carefully planted, while red herrings confuse rather than misdirect. The revelation arrives with insufficient buildup, leaving viewers more relieved than satisfied when pieces finally click together.

More troubling is the film’s moral resolution—a complication I won’t spoil that left me questioning the characters’ ethical foundations just when I should have been anticipating future installments. The story establishes problematic moral high ground that sours the entire experience, suggesting these amateur sleuths might cause more harm than good in their quest for justice. When the story finally ventures into morally murky territory, it pulls back at the last second, afraid of offending audiences. A decision that should feel weighty plays like an afterthought—a shrug dressed up as revelation.

Columbus and his screenwriting duo seem afraid to fully commit to either cozy comfort or genuine mystery tension. The result occupies an uncomfortable middle ground—too sanitized for thriller enthusiasts, too scattered for cozy mystery devotees. Where Osman’s novel explored themes of aging, grief, loneliness, and justice with real bite, the film politely avoids anything that might poke viewers too hard. The script struggles with multiple storylines and character development, resulting in a narrative that feels perpetually unbalanced.

There’s undeniable pleasure in watching UK seniors living their best lives in a converted country estate, maintaining independence and vitality well into their golden years. The film’s celebration of aging gracefully resonates in our youth-obsessed culture. Its gentle approach to retirement community life avoids condescension. A cheeky jab at monarchy via Mirren proves clever, and scattered charming moments emerge throughout.

Yet these positive elements can’t overcome fundamental storytelling weaknesses. For a mystery about clever people doing bold things, The Thursday Murder Club lacks boldness itself. It aims to entertain without provoking, solve problems without consequences, and wrap up too neatly. Those expecting the sharp wit of Agatha Christie or the gentle cleverness of Murder, She Wrote will find themselves disappointed. This feels more like comfort television stretched to feature length—pleasant enough for rainy afternoons but forgettable once the credits roll.

The Thursday Murder Club is likely to find its audience among Netflix subscribers seeking a comfortable viewing experience. The star power alone ensures entertainment value, while the English countryside provides visual comfort food for armchair travelers. Franchise potential remains strong, given the source material’s popularity and the streaming audience’s appetite for familiar content. There will almost certainly be sequels, but if future installments don’t dig deeper—exploring not just the what of murder, but the why—they risk becoming exactly what they’re trying to avoid: cozy mysteries that are all teacup, no teeth.