Table of Contents
"In the bleak midwinter."
With these final words, the near-decade-long series Peaky Blinders bid farewell to its leading man, Thomas Shelby (Cillian Murphy). The haunting phrase, while originating from a poem, quickly became a mantra of the British period drama; though for the Shelby family, it's an acknowledgment of their fleeting mortality.
Pithily titled The Immortal Man, the final installment of Peaky Blinders came to Netflix on March 20, 2026 after premiering in select theaters on March 6. And while Netflix doesn't adhere to the typical 45-day theatrical window, data from its limited screenings—especially in the UK—suggests that its success would've rivaled recent box office favorites.
Now, these figures are nothing if not a testament to its endlessly dedicated fanbase. Its road from a surprise BBC Two hit to a global cultural phenomenon has been a long, award-paved one, and audiences have stuck with their beloved urban street gang through and through. But has The Immortal Man done well by its fans?
"Heavy lies the crown," the movie's tagline proclaims. Such is the case for its metaphorical monarchs, creator and writer Stephen Knight and returning director Tom Harper. With the legacy of an adored, six season show weighing down on their shoulders, the duo's place at the throne isn't exactly enviable. Knight himself recognized the colossal scale of the task, stating how he felt obligated to "justify" the film's existence on behalf of the fans.
While The Immortal Man was written as a love letter to Peaky fans everywhere, it reads as more of a prewritten greeting card than the poignant, reflective eulogy Thomas Shelby deserves. Many story elements feel formulaic, detached, impersonal: and as a result, Tommy's character suffers.
The Tommy introduced in act one is a shadow of his former self. Years have passed since the show's final season; our antihero has retreated to an isolated state of self-inflicted condemnation against the bleak backdrop of a war-torn Europe. He has escaped the Shelby family business, and with it, his criminal deeds. Tommy spends the bleak midwinter of his life away from Birmingham and in a dilapidated mansion.
Amidst his secluded retirement, the ex-gangster drafts a memoir to confront his demons. Visions of deceased family members and traumatic wartime memories continue to haunt Tommy in typical Peaky Blinders fashion. A number of familiar plot devices resurface, including the inexplicable use of "gypsy magic" and a few conveniently placed ghosts.
Thomas Shelby's Romani heritage has always been a fascinating aspect of his character, and one I felt deserved a more substantial storyline. But its role in this film—particularly Tommy's arbitrary crowning as the Rom Baro ("king of all the gypsies")—seemed irrelevant to his personal development and served no great purpose to the main plot.
This is especially true considering the film's historical context, a far more pressing and narratively significant matter. Tommy's reluctance to rejoin Great Britain's war efforts is expected given his past service as a WWI tunneler. Conversely, Shelby's zealous involvement in anti-fascist politics is lacking in the once ferociously socialist spokesman: He seems to have forgotten his impassioned Labour Party activism throughout Season 5.
We don't even see him interact with the movie's main villain, Nazi sympathizer Beckett (Tim Roth), who somewhat takes Tommy's place as Duke's surrogate father figure. It takes the needless death of Tommy's sister Ada (Sophie Rundle) and a cryptic, if not unfounded invocation from his Romani in-law Kaulo (Rebecca Ferguson) to send him back into battle—and far too late, in my opinion.
Returning to the topic of "gypsy" mysticism, Kaulo was written as a replacement for the iconic role of Polly Gray (I say "replacement" tentatively: the late Helen McCrory can never truly be replaced), a similarly witchy character with a cunning wit and psychic ties to Romani spiritualism.
Kaulo, however, pales in comparison. In an expository nightmare, she claims she's the twin sister of Zelda, Tommy's old lover and the mother of his illegitimate son Duke (Barry Keoghan). Kaulo "proves" their kinship by channeling Zelda's spirit, but even then this force-fed fable is difficult to swallow.
And of course, it wouldn't be Peaky Blinders without a gratuitous show of Thomas Shelby's unabashed promiscuity. Barely half an hour passes before an obligatory sex scene, wherein a Zelda-possessed Kaulo seduces Tommy without any great difficulty (because nothing gets him more excited than his dead mistress' identical twin). Tommy's immediate surrender to temptation—while not altogether foreign—feels unprecedented given the rushed, confusing, and frankly two-dimensional nature of their relationship.
Furthermore, to completely remove himself from the issues concerning his family, the most sacred Shelby value, is entirely out of character.
In Tommy's absence, his estranged son Duke has taken control of the family empire, ruling it with the same iron fist. Tommy spends the majority of the film brooding, wallowing in the grime of his own filthy conscience instead of reconnecting with his last remaining kin.
Even more shocking is the explanation for his brother Arthur's (Paul Anderson) absence, which is at first ruled as a suicide and later revealed as a drunken, rage-fueled strangulation at the hands of Tommy—his own flesh and blood.
The murder is so horrific and blatantly uncharacteristic of Tommy that he becomes hard to root for or even sympathize with throughout the rest of the movie. We know Tommy's list of sins could fill a library, but there was always something undoubtedly human and redeemable about his disposition that made him worth idolizing. Now, his moral compass is abhorrently skewed, leaving our protagonist lost and directionless.
So when Thomas Shelby rejoins the battle of Birmingham, and finally finds peace at the end of Duke's gun, it's hard to feel anything for the shell of a man. Six seasons of character development, world building, and emotional escalation fizzles out into nothing.
"Like a horse," Tommy instructs his son. And the saga ends in a similar way: quick, painless, and quite messy.
When I said Thomas Shelby is a shadow of his former self, I meant it in more ways than one. The Immortal Man tells the story of a man irreversibly changed by the scarring events of his turbulent life. But it also warps a complex, layered character into an almost unrecognizable vessel, a puppet doing his final dance.
Granted, there were many factors working against the large-scale production. The COVID-19 pandemic threw a wrench in the works, grinding Season 7 to a halt and eventually evolving it into a two-hour movie. Its weaker points stemmed from the breakneck pacing, causing a domino effect of flat characters and flimsy subplots.
It's also worth considering how the recently announced Peaky Blinders sequel series might have impacted the finale. I think it's fair to attribute some of Tommy's disappointing sendoff to a disproportionate focus on the spinoff—hence Duke's half-baked character development, among other loose ends.
Which brings us to the age-old question of quality versus quantity: In a society where popular culture demands instant gratification, what do today's audiences truly want? Do we value quality content enough to wait years for an exceptional sequel? Or are we so desperate for more media that we'd consume the scraps entertainment giants throw at us?
I would like to say the former, but modern distribution models are undeniably designed to churn out new content, if only to satisfy the hungry masses. "Peaky Blinders" is just one of many franchises caught in the feeding frenzy.
I firmly believe the series should've ended with Season 6. While it had its flaws, the final episode brought a needed sense of closure to our troubled protagonist. After hallucinating a reunion with his deceased daughter, Tommy rides away on his stark white steed, leaving his caravan burning behind him. It's poetic, profound, and a fittingly enigmatic farewell for the "immortal" man.
But I have to admit: I might've felt a chill when Tommy returned to the streets of Birmingham on horseback, a dramatized rendition of Nick Cave’s “Red Right Hand” announcing his arrival.
