Why 'Peaky Blinders: The Immortal Man' Looks Incredible but Feels Hollow
Few series of the 2010s leaned so heavily on sheer aesthetic force as Peaky Blinders, a cultural moment powered by mood, attitude and the sight of Cillian Murphy radiating fury—occasionally from atop a horse.
Peaky Blinders: The Immortal Man stuns with visuals and performances, yet its rushed plot and thin dialogue fail to match its powerful atmosphere.
From its beginnings, the Birmingham-based period crime drama, set between 1919 and the mid-1930s, attracted loose comparisons to The Sopranos. Both shows engaged with violence, outsider identity and romanticized masculinity, but the resemblance rarely went deeper than that. Where The Sopranos maintained a devotion to cinematic precision, Peaky Blinders opted for a more stylized, swagger-driven idea of cool. Its defining imagery fused pounding rock and punk tracks with sharply dressed enforcers moving in formation through industrial streets. The craftsmanship in design and cinematography consistently impressed, yet the storytelling often fell short of matching that atmosphere.
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In many ways, the show shared a closer spirit with Downton Abbey—a glossy, visually pleasing experience that could feel more decorative than demanding. That connection becomes especially apparent in Peaky Blinders: The Immortal Man, a feature-length continuation released on Netflix following the series’ 2022 conclusion after six seasons.
Directed by Tom Harper from a script by creator Steven Knight, the film operates as a compact epilogue. It is undeniably attractive to watch and anchored by strong performances. Barry Keoghan, in particular, commands attention, generating an almost uncanny chemistry with every character he encounters—from a fascist figure to a random victim of violence, and even a relative. Still, the narrative seems to rush forward, ticking through events with an urgency that leaves little room for emotional weight. Even its nods to fans feel brief and somewhat perfunctory.
Not all viewers will respond the same way to heightened drama, but here the dialogue often leans toward blunt exposition. It carries the sense of something designed to compete with distraction rather than demand full attention.
Tommy Shelby returns as a man deeply marked by his past. Once a calculating leader of a feared yet respected gang, he is now withdrawn and burdened. The setting shifts to 1940, with the Midlands enduring the Blitz. Having previously confronted both a false death sentence and the consequences of his legacy, Tommy retreated entirely from society. Time has not softened his isolation. He lives alone in a decaying estate, passing his days shooting pigeons and typing out a confessional memoir, while visions of his deceased daughter linger in his mind. His brother Arthur is absent, his situation gradually explained.
Reluctant to reengage with his former world, Tommy is eventually drawn back by two women. Ada, now an influential political figure, informs him that Birmingham has been devastated by bombing and that his son’s leadership is unraveling the Peaky Blinders. Alongside her is Kaulo, a Romani woman whose role suggests something more mystical, guiding him toward an inevitable fate. Their presence echoes a familiar narrative device—the call to action.
Meanwhile, Tommy’s estranged son Duke has taken control of the organization. Introduced late in the series as the child of a Romani woman named Zelda, he is now portrayed by Barry Keoghan with a volatile intensity. Detached and nihilistic, Duke claims to value nothing. Under his command, the gang has shifted into operations that directly undermine Britain’s wartime efforts, stealing everything from military equipment to medical supplies intended for victims of air raids.
Duke soon comes under the influence of John Beckett, a British fascist plotting to destabilize the economy with counterfeit German currency. Though the financial reward is significant, Duke appears equally drawn to Beckett’s approval, particularly when compared to the latter’s own son.
The film ultimately circles a central question: can Tommy reclaim his son from this destructive path, or are they reflections of the same emptiness?
Visually, the film is often remarkable. Cinematographer George Steel captures the textures of Northern England with striking clarity—mist, stone and fading light combine to create an atmosphere that feels tangible. The imagery alone carries much of the film’s emotional weight.
Yet not all stylistic choices land effectively. At times, the visual language slips into overly sentimental flourishes, including dreamlike inserts that disrupt the grounded tone. Another recurring feature is the cast’s sculpted appearance, with sharply defined faces becoming an almost distracting motif.
In the end, Peaky Blinders: The Immortal Man delivers a somber continuation steeped in style. Its world remains captivating to look at, even if the story beneath never fully rises to meet it.
