In the shadowy corridors of Cold War intrigue and the glittering underbelly of swinging London, few stories have the power to topple empires like the Profumo affair did in 1963. This scandal wasn’t just a tabloid sensation; it was a seismic rupture in the British establishment, exposing the rot of hypocrisy, class divides, and unchecked power. Now, over six decades later, that explosive tale has found new life on Netflix with The Trial of Christine Keeler, a riveting six-part BBC drama that reimagines the events through the eyes of the woman at its heart. Starring James Norton in a career-defining turn as the enigmatic osteopath Stephen Ward, the series has surged up the streaming charts, drawing comparisons to John le Carré adaptations like The Night Manager—but with a sharper feminist edge, a darker undercurrent of exploitation, and a ruthless dissection of truth’s brutal cost.
Premiering on BBC One in late 2019, The Trial of Christine Keeler was always destined for cult status. But its arrival on Netflix in May 2025 has catapulted it into the global spotlight, reigniting debates about sex, spies, and scandal in an era still grappling with #MeToo reckonings and political cover-ups. Viewers are devouring the episodes, praising its non-linear storytelling that jumps between steamy poolside encounters and courtroom reckonings, all set against the modish backdrop of early ’60s Britain. If The Night Manager was a sleek, high-octane chase through hotel lobbies and arms deals, this is its grittier cousin: less glamorous, more intimate, and unflinchingly focused on the human wreckage left in espionage’s wake. It’s darker because it doesn’t glamorize the betrayal— it lays bare the predatory dynamics. Smarter, with its layered exploration of class and gender. And more ruthless, refusing to let the powerful off the hook with a handsome spy’s redemption arc.
At the series’ core is Sophie Cookson as Christine Keeler, the 19-year-old model and showgirl whose brief fling with War Secretary John Profumo ignited a firestorm. Cookson, known for her poised intensity in the Kingsman films, brings a raw vulnerability to Keeler— a working-class girl from a broken home, thrust into a world of aristocratic parties and Soviet attachés. Her Christine isn’t the vixen of tabloid lore; she’s a survivor navigating a minefield of male egos and ambitions. The drama opens in medias res, with Keeler already entangled in a web spun by her ex-boyfriends: the volatile jazz promoter Johnny Edgecombe (Nathan Stewart-Jarrett) and the possessive club owner Lucky Gordon (Anthony Welsh). When Edgecombe fires shots at Ward’s Wimpole Mews flat in a jealous rage, the press descends, unearthing Keeler’s past liaisons like buried munitions.
Enter James Norton as Stephen Ward, the pivotal figure whose charm masks a chilling opportunism. Norton, fresh off brooding turns in Happy Valley and Grantchester, delivers a performance that’s equal parts magnetic and menacing. Ward is the society osteopath to the stars—treating Winston Churchill’s aches one day, hosting debauched soirees the next. He’s the bridge between Keeler’s gritty Notting Hill bedsit and the opulent pools of Cliveden House, where the scandal’s fateful meeting occurs. In the summer of 1961, Ward brings Keeler and her roommate Mandy Rice-Davies (a luminous Ellie Bamber) to Lord Astor’s estate. There, amid the laughter of the elite, the bikini-clad Keeler catches the eye of 46-year-old Profumo (Ben Miles, channeling steely entitlement from The Crown). What follows is a clandestine affair—poolside trysts, whispered promises—that Profumo ends abruptly, only for it to resurface like a ghost.
But Ward’s real game is riskier: he’s entangled with Yevgeny Ivanov (Visar Vishka), a Soviet naval attaché and suspected spy whom MI5 is desperately trying to flip. Keeler’s simultaneous dalliance with Ivanov turns her into a potential security breach, a pawn in the Cold War chess match. The series masterfully weaves these threads, flashing back to Keeler’s troubled youth—abandoned by her father, a teen mother whose premature son dies days after birth—while hurtling forward to the 1963 courtroom dramas. Episode 1 sets the tone with visceral energy: Edgecombe’s gunfire shatters the night, journalists circle like vultures, and Ward coos “little baby” to Keeler in a tone that’s paternal one moment, possessive the next. Norton’s Ward isn’t a cartoon villain; he’s a product of his privilege, blind to the damage he inflicts, which makes his downfall all the more poignant.
As the scandal erupts, the series shifts into high gear. Profumo, under pressure from Prime Minister Harold Macmillan (a weary Michael Maloney), denies everything in Parliament—a lie that unravels spectacularly when Keeler sells her story to the Sunday Mirror for a pittance. Ben Miles nails Profumo’s arc: the cocky minister who views Keeler as a disposable thrill, only to watch his marriage to actress Valerie Hobson (Emilia Fox, icy and unbreakable) fracture under the glare. Fox’s Valerie is a standout, her frosty elegance cracking just enough to reveal the quiet devastation of betrayal. The real-life Profumo resigned in June 1963, confessing his deceit and retreating into charitable obscurity, but the show humanizes him without excusing him— a nuance that elevates it beyond mere scandal-mongering.
The historical Profumo affair was the story that shocked Britain to its core. In the post-Suez, pre-Beatles haze of 1963, it symbolized everything fraying in the establishment: a Conservative government already battered by economic woes and spy scandals like the Portland Ring. Profumo’s liaison wasn’t just infidelity; it was a potential leak of NATO secrets to the Soviets via Ivanov, fueling fears of blackmail and treason. The press frenzy was unprecedented—headlines screamed “The Tart and the Spy,” with Macmillan himself dismissing Keeler as a “tart” in private. The fallout was cataclysmic: Profumo’s resignation, Macmillan’s health collapse and exit, and the Tories’ 1964 election loss to Labour’s Harold Wilson. It accelerated the sexual revolution, shattering the illusion of upper-class propriety and paving the way for the permissive ’60s.
Yet The Trial of Christine Keeler reframes this as Keeler’s trial by fire, not the men’s. Amanda Coe’s script, lauded for its feminist lens, draws from Keeler’s own memoirs and interviews, portraying her as exploited rather than complicit. When police grill her on her lovers, it’s a humiliating inquisition; her perjury charge (for lying about the Gordon assault) lands her nine months in Holloway Prison. Mandy Rice-Davies fares better, quipping famously at Ward’s trial, “He would, wouldn’t he?” about Lord Astor’s denials—a line that becomes a feminist touchstone. Bamber’s Mandy is vivacious and unapologetic, a foil to Keeler’s haunted introspection.
Comparisons to The Night Manager are inevitable—and telling. Both are BBC spy thrillers laced with illicit romance and moral ambiguity, but where Tom Hiddleston’s Jonathan Pine is a dashing avenger in sun-drenched villas, Norton’s Ward is a seedy enabler in fog-shrouded London flats. The Night Manager (2016) thrived on its glossy action and star power, but critics called it “soapy” for its plot conveniences. The Trial is smarter, delving into the affair’s racial undercurrents—Edgecombe and Gordon, Black immigrants from the Caribbean, face harsher scrutiny than their white counterparts—and class warfare, with Keeler’s council estate roots clashing against Profumo’s Eton polish. It’s darker, unflinching in its depiction of abuse: Keeler’s assault by Gordon, Ward’s grooming, the state’s weaponization of morality. And more ruthless, ending not with heroic takedowns but quiet tragedies—Ward’s Nembutal-fueled suicide mid-trial, Keeler’s lifelong media hounding until her 2017 death.
Reception has been stellar, with an 77% Rotten Tomatoes score and audience approval at 86%. The Guardian hailed it as a “furiously fast, fun ride” that grips the darker issues, while Radio Times noted its timeless compulsion in an age of Teflon politicians. User reviews on IMDb echo this: “Norton’s Ward is queasy and brilliant,” one writes, “a manipulator you almost root for until you don’t.” Another praises Cookson’s “sensational” lead: “She makes Keeler a pawn who becomes a player.” On Netflix, it’s sparked a binge wave, with fans tweeting about its relevance to modern scandals—from Boris Johnson’s parties to Epstein’s web.
Production-wise, the series is a triumph of period authenticity. Filmed in Bristol and Bath standing in for swinging London, it captures the era’s sartorial swagger—miniskirts budding, beehives towering—against a score by Jonathan Rhys Hill that pulses with jazz-infused tension. Directors Andrea Harkin and Leanne Welham employ a fragmented timeline that mirrors the scandal’s chaotic unraveling, though some critics found it disorienting. Coe, a BAFTA winner for Apple Tree Yard, consulted historians and Keeler’s circle, ensuring fidelity without sensationalism.
What makes The Trial of Christine Keeler endure isn’t just the espionage or betrayal—it’s the price of truth. Keeler paid with her freedom and reputation, branded a scarlet woman while the men walked away (Profumo to Toynbee Hall charity work, Ward to infamy). In 2025, as trust in institutions erodes further, the series feels prophetic: a reminder that power protects itself by silencing the vulnerable. Norton’s chilling line as Ward—”Everyone has secrets”—lands like a gut punch, underscoring the haunting cost of exposure.
For Netflix viewers, this isn’t just a historical drama; it’s a mirror to our fractured present. Stream it, and you’ll emerge questioning not just what happened in 1963, but how little has changed. In the words of Mandy Rice-Davies, “They would, wouldn’t they?” And in The Trial, they finally don’t get away with it.
