Netflix’s latest series, Agatha Christie's Seven Dials, has a lot of factors in its favour. It’s based on an Agatha Christie novel The Seven Dials Mystery, it has a period setting, and is fronted by dependable names like Helena Bonham Carter and Martin Freeman. Add to this veteran screenwriter Chris Chibnall, who knows his way around crime writing.
Yet, what lands on screen is a strangely hollow adaptation: not unwatchable but extremely predictable and disappointing if you care about Christie or classic mystery storytelling.
Set in 1925, the series unfolds over three hour-long episodes, brimming with champagne, masquerades and aristocratic charm. A party at the country estate of Lady Caterham (Bonham Carter) ends with the apparent suicide of a young man the following morning. His death doesn’t sit right with Lady Eileen “Bundle” Brent (Mia McKenna-Bruce), who takes it upon herself to investigate.
What follows is a trail of anonymous notes, suspicious clocks, secret meetings and an intricate web of political conspiracy that stretches from English drawing rooms to the corridors of government power.
The first problem is the source material itself. Seven Dials is not one of Christie’s greater novels, and she knew it. Written during what she later dismissed as her “plutocratic period”, it’s lighter, sillier and far less intricate than her Poirot or Marple stories. Chibnall’s approach is to beef it up — adding layers of conspiracy and espionage — but the extra weight doesn’t add much depth. Key twists are signposted early, the central mystery is oddly easy to solve, and the narrative often mistakes busyness for suspense.
Tone is where the series really begins to wobble. Visually, it wants to be classic Christie: stately homes, elaborate costumes, and immaculate 1920s interiors. But the dialogue and performances don’t always match that ambition. The younger cast in particular drift between period stiffness and modern, almost Gen Z-inflected delivery. It’s distracting, and it robs the drama of the immersion that great period mysteries depend on.
McKenna-Bruce gives Bundle plenty of energy and sincerity, but the character is written so inconsistently that she never quite becomes convincing. Christie’s amateur sleuths work best when they’re underestimated — remember Vishal Bhardwaj’s Charlie Chopra? — Bundle is framed as the smartest person in every room from the outset. Edward Bluemel, as her friend Jimmy Thesiger, is amicable enough but given little to do beyond shuttling the plot along.
Martin Freeman’s eventual arrival as Superintendent Battle is a genuine relief. He brings authority, a sense that someone on screen understands how these stories should be played — without fuss. Unfortunately, by the time he takes control, the series has already squandered much of its momentum.
From a technical standpoint, Agatha Christie's Seven Dials has its moments of visual flair — masked guests framed like suspects, clocks lingering ominously in shot — yet these ideas are abandoned almost as soon as they appear. Too often, the direction settles for flat, functional staging that could belong to any mid-tier streaming drama.
