Mr Bond? No, it’s ‘Slow Horses’, actually 

There was a time when British espionage was synonymous with sophistication. James Bond in his tuxedo, martini in hand, shooting his way out of every glamorous pickle. John Steed and Emma Peel in The Avengers were the epitome of Sixties elegance. But if you think that’s what Slow Horses is all about, you’ve got the wrong idea. The Apple TV+ series flips the spy genre on its head and, in doing so, gives us something that hasn’t graced our screens in ages—a true reflection of modern Britain, complete with office politics, pratfalls, and a steady supply of dry wit.

The cast boasts acting royalty—Gary Oldman as Jackson Lamb and Kristin Scott Thomas as Diana Taverner. You’d expect them to be good, and they don’t disappoint. Oldman’s Lamb is a gruff, foul-mouthed, and delightfully scruffy relic of the intelligence world. Scott Thomas, as the ice-cold MI5 official, cuts through scenes with a steely elegance. They’re mesmerising, but it’s the motley crew around them that makes this show truly shine.

Jonathan Pryce turns in a haunting performance as David Cartwright, the ex-spy struggling with dementia, with moments of clarity that are equal parts tragic and revelatory. Then there’s Christopher Chung as Roddy Ho, the brilliant yet excruciatingly arrogant computer hacker. A character so obnoxious you’re amazed at how much you enjoy every minute he’s on screen. And Jack Lowden as River Cartwright—our reluctant hero, the washed-up talent trying to claw his way back into relevance. The brilliant Saskia Reeves plays the recovering alcoholic Catherine Standish, an office administrator who, like so many in her position, often seems like the only adult not just in the room, but the whole intelligence community. 

It’s the cast bigger than the sum of its parts. As human collection protagonists you’ll ever meet, despite them being spies, and that’s where the brilliance is found. 

If you’re hoping for choreographed, martial arts-infused fight scenes, you’d best look elsewhere. Here we get something much more realistic — and, occasionally, much funnier. Picture a tussle between two men who aren’t exactly gym regulars: frantic grappling, a knee to the groin, and both participants rolling around in agony. It’s brutal, clumsy, and a far cry from the slick action set pieces we’ve come to expect from spy dramas. These are human beings, not superheroes, and it’s a refreshing change of pace.

The plot twists in Slow Horses are satisfying without resorting to overblown complexity. You won’t find any narrative acrobatics designed to make the writers look clever. Instead, the story unfolds with enough surprises to keep you guessing, but without that nagging feeling of being manipulated. There’s an authenticity to the narrative, and for once, you get the sense that these characters are as clueless as we often feel. It’s espionage as it probably is: full of misunderstandings, dead ends, and the occasional stroke of dumb luck.

The comedy is where Slow Horses truly distinguishes itself. This is not the “smirk while delivering a killing blow” kind of humour you get in Bond. No, this is very modern British comedy—dry, understated, and entirely unglamorous. The villains here aren’t grandiose evil geniuses; they’re often as baffled by their own schemes as everyone else. People muddle through the chaos, muttering under their breath, and there’s always that sense of the absurd lurking just beneath the surface.

Things are given nicknames, the kind only a Brit would come up with: “Slough House”, where the washed-up spies go to rot; “The Park”, headquarters for the real intelligence work; “The First Desk”, a bureaucratic title with all the flair of a damp biscuit. The show is littered with these small touches, creating an atmosphere that is unmistakably British. When characters get drunk, they don’t sip martinis—they get silly, lose their dignity, and do things they’ll regret in the morning. It’s refreshingly real.

There hasn’t been anything this British on television since The Detectorists —a show that similarly revels in the minutiae of ordinary life. Slow Horses shows us spies who aren’t facing down the end of the world but rather grappling with bureaucracy, office politics, and their own shortcomings. Death, when it occurs, is messy and traumatic; killers not delivering punchlines but vomiting. The result is a series that captures something very true about Britain: a sense of weary resilience, of muddling through with humour and if not a stiff upper lip its modern counterpart: a shrug of quiet resignation.

And so we arrive at the elephant in the room: James Bond. When Daniel Craig stepped into the role in 2006, the series was given a gritty makeover, but it has remained firmly rooted in an extravagant reality. Bond is all about glamour, with his tech gadgets, international jet-setting, and, of course, those signature cocktails. Yet, as Slow Horses shows, there’s another way to tell a spy story—one that reflects the Britain we know today.

It’s not like Bond hasn’t flirted with this idea before. Take Never Say Never Again , where an ageing Sean Connery battled not just the bad guys, but also the banalities of budget cuts and a pompous, out-of-touch boss. Sound familiar? It’s the Slow Horses formula: spies who are as much a product of their mundane environment as they are masters of intrigue. The Bond franchise could do worse than to take a leaf out of this book, trading in a bit of the glamour for a dose of grit and grim reality.

Slow Horses is an antidote to the slick, high-octane spy thrillers that dominate screens. It’s a reminder that espionage isn’t all tuxedos and car chases. Sometimes, it’s a lot closer to home: confusing, exasperating, and occasionally very funny. In embracing this messy reality, Slow Horses manages to tell a story that feels both fresh and comfortingly familiar.

If you’re looking for a spy series that captures the spirit of modern Britain—complete with the dreariness, the banter, and that knack for understated brilliance—look no further than Slow Horses.

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