The Thursday Murder Club – Netflix, Movie Review

First, let’s talk cast. Helen Mirren. Pierce Brosnan. Celia Imrie. Ben Kingsley, a smattering of other “I-know-that-face” actors who’ve been on posters, marquees, and award podiums. You’d think with that lineup, we’d be signing up for a cinematic feast. Instead, what we get is more like a lukewarm buffet at a retirement home. Edible, sure. Memorable? Not really.

The film, adapted from Richard Osman’s bestselling book, clearly knows its audience: pensioners with a nice cup of tea, a warm blanket, and a fondness for saying, “Well, wasn’t that lovely?” The rest of us? We’re left wondering if Netflix mistook “murder mystery” for “Sunday nap special.”

Performances:

Helen Mirren, ever the queen, glides through her role with such effortlessness that you almost forgive the fact that her character doesn’t really do much. She delivers lines with a sparkle, but sparkle alone doesn’t solve plot inertia. Pierce Brosnan plays his part as if James Bond were given a membership card at the local golf club. He’s charming, but in that “let’s wrap this up before the early bird dinner” way.

And then we have Celia Imrie—delightful as always, sharp as a tack, with a knack for delivering lines like she’s winking at the audience. She brings warmth and wit, but it’s almost tragic watching her energy bounce off such a tepid script.

And Sir Ben Kingsley. A man who once transformed into Gandhi and had us all riveted. Here, he’s… fine. Respectable. Professional. But when you hire Ben Kingsley, you don’t want fine—you want spine-tingling brilliance. Instead, it’s as if the film told him: “Sir Ben, could you tone it down? We don’t want to outshine the custard.”

The supporting cast gives “fair” performances—competent, professional, but nothing you’ll be quoting at dinner parties unless your dinner parties involve crosswords and chamomile.

The Plot (or, The Lack Thereof):

Now, about that story. A group of retirees in a posh retirement village solve murders. On paper, it’s Agatha Christie meets The Golden Girls. On screen, it’s more “Agatha Christie… if she’d been sedated.” The twists are mild, the suspense flatter than week-old soda, and the emotional beats so syrupy that you’ll be checking your insulin levels.

Yes, there are “emotional” moments—tear-jerker scenes clearly engineered to tug at your heartstrings. And for the right audience, they work. But for anyone under 60, it feels less like heartfelt drama and more like being force-fed nostalgia.

The Appeal Question:

Here’s the rub: does this movie work for all ages? Not really. If you’re in your twenties or thirties, you’ll probably watch with the same detached fascination you reserve for your grandparents’ stories about ration cards. The writing is pitched squarely at a certain age group—one that enjoys bingo more than binge-worthy thrills.

Final Verdict:

With such a powerhouse cast, The Thursday Murder Club had the potential to be a witty, gripping, star-studded caper. Instead, it’s a polite shrug of a film. Average. Mediocre. Comfortably forgettable. A one-time watch if you’re feeling charitable, or maybe not at all if your Netflix algorithm has blessed you with literally anything else.

To sum it up, it’s like going to a five-star restaurant, ordering the chef’s special, and being served plain oatmeal. Perfectly fine, but why bother when the world is full of spice?