In the sweltering summer of 1961, as the Cold War’s chill seeped into every corner of British high society, a single affair ignited a firestorm that toppled ministers, ensnared spies, and exposed the rotten core of the establishment. Fast-forward to 2025, and Netflix has dusted off this powder keg of scandal for a new generation: The Trial of Christine Keeler, the razor-sharp BBC miniseries starring James Norton as the enigmatic osteopath at its heart. Billed unapologetically as “the story that shocked Britain,” this six-part thriller—first unleashed in 2019—has landed on the streaming giant like a grenade in a drawing room. With its labyrinthine web of lust, lies, and leaked secrets, Norton’s portrayal of Stephen Ward transforms a historical footnote into a pulse-pounding indictment of power’s underbelly. Viewers are already breathless, hailing it as Netflix’s slyest import yet: darker than The Crown‘s palace intrigues, smarter than McMafia‘s oligarch games, and ruthlessly unsparing in its gaze on the men who wielded—and weaponized—privilege.

The Profumo Affair, as it’s etched in infamy, wasn’t just a bedroom betrayal; it was a seismic rupture in the facade of post-war Britain. At its epicenter: Christine Keeler, a 19-year-old showgirl and model whose brief dalliance with John Profumo, the Secretary of State for War, collided disastrously with her simultaneous involvement with Soviet naval attaché Yevgeny Ivanov—a man MI5 suspected of being a KGB operative. Enter Stephen Ward, the charming society doctor whose Rolodex of elites made him the ultimate connector. Ward, played with magnetic ambiguity by Norton, wasn’t merely a pimp in pinstripes; he was a symptom of the era’s hypocrisies—a healer by day who peddled access and flesh by night. When the press connected the dots, the fallout was cataclysmic: Profumo resigned in disgrace, Ward faced trial for living off immoral earnings, and Keeler became the scapegoat for a nation’s prurient outrage. Newspapers frothed with headlines like “The Spy Who Loved Me” and “Profumo’s Poolside Passion,” while Parliament teetered on the brink of collapse. It was the Suez Crisis meets Deep Throat, a scandal that didn’t just shock Britain—it redefined it, accelerating the cultural thaw that birthed the Swinging Sixties and eroding faith in the old guard forever.

What elevates The Trial of Christine Keeler from period drama to thriller masterpiece is its refusal to romanticize the rot. Penned by Amanda Coe, a scribe with a scalpel for dialogue (her credits include Apple Tree Yard and The Fifteen Billion Pound Election), the series sidesteps tabloid sensationalism for a surgical dissection of sexual politics. “This isn’t about the salacious headlines,” Coe has said in past reflections; “it’s about the women who were chewed up and spat out by a machine that protected its own.” The narrative unfolds non-chronologically, jumping between sultry pool parties at Cliveden House and the stark brutality of courtroom cross-examinations, mirroring the fragmented memories of those ensnared. Director Leanne Klein, known for her taut work on The Body Farm, bathes the screen in a hazy amber glow—cigarette smoke curling like secrets in Mayfair flats, flashbulbs popping like gunfire outside New Scotland Yard. The score, a brooding mix of orchestral swells and dissonant jazz riffs by Oliver Ledbury, underscores the era’s jazz-club undercurrents, where every saxophone wail hints at impending doom.

James Norton, the brooding heartthrob who’s slithered from vicar’s collar in Grantchester to psychopathic killer in Happy Valley, delivers his most audacious turn yet as Ward. At 40, Norton inhabits the doctor’s duality with predatory grace: one moment, he’s the bon vivant sketching nudes at risqué soirees, his easy laugh disarming lords and ladies alike; the next, he’s a cornered animal in the dock, his eyes—those piercing blues—betraying the flicker of self-awareness that makes him tragically compelling. Ward was no cartoon villain; he was a product of his class, a bohemian bridge between the aristocracy and the demi-monde, convinced his “arrangements” were harmless fun. Norton captures this with a velvet menace—his Ward schmoozes Profumo over brandy, eyes glinting with mischief, only to unravel in private monologues that whisper of isolation. “The challenge was not to make him too likable,” Norton admitted in a 2019 interview, “because Ward was complicit in his own destruction, but also a victim of a system that devoured its enablers.” It’s a performance laced with Norton’s signature intensity: recall his feverish unraveling as Sidney in Grantchester or the coiled rage of Tommy Lee Royce. Here, it’s subtler, sexier—a slow seduction of the audience, leaving us questioning if Ward was predator, pawn, or both.

Flanking Norton is a constellation of talent that elevates the ensemble to operatic heights. Sophie Cookson, the willowy force behind Kingsman’s Roxy, channels Keeler’s vulnerability and fire with heartbreaking authenticity. No doe-eyed ingenue, Cookson’s Christine is a survivor forged in London’s back alleys—her wide eyes flashing defiance during police grillings, her body a battlefield of bruises and bravado. “She refused to be silenced,” Cookson told Radio Times, “and that’s the spine of this story.” As Mandy Rice-Davies, Keeler’s sharp-tongued flatmate and fellow lightning rod, Ellie Bamber (The Nutcracker and the Four Realms) brings a peroxide-blonde bite—her courtroom quip, “He would, wouldn’t he?” (dismissing Lord Astor’s denial of their affair), lands like a slap to the patriarchy. Ben Miles (The Crown) essays Profumo as a bluff patrician whose charm curdles into cornered bluster, while Emilia Fox (Silent Witness) simmers as Valerie Profumo, the elegant wife whose quiet fury cuts deeper than any tabloid splash. Nathan Stewart-Jarrett (Candyman) adds layers as a young Bernard Silverman, Keeler’s conflicted lawyer, his idealism clashing against the scandal’s cynicism. And then there’s Charlie Rowe as the volatile Johnny Edgecombe, whose jealous shotgun-toting rampage outside Keeler’s flat lights the fuse, his manic energy a harbinger of the chaos to come.

The series’ ruthlessness shines in its unflinching lens on exploitation. Where earlier depictions—like the 1989 film Scandal with Joanne Whalley as Keeler—leaned on glamour and gossip, Coe’s script spotlights the gendered double standards: men like Ward and Profumo skate on privilege, while Keeler endures slut-shaming interrogations that veer into outright misogyny. One gut-wrenching scene sees a prosecutor badgering her about her “immoral lifestyle,” her responses a mix of weary wit and bottled rage. It’s a timely gut-punch, echoing #MeToo reckonings and the scrutiny on figures like Prince Andrew. The spy element, often sidelined in retellings, pulses with Cold War paranoia: Ivanov (Kirill Pirogov) isn’t a mustache-twirling villain but a suave charmer whose flirtations with Keeler mask MI5’s desperate bid to flip him. Ward’s sketches of nude spies and whispered pillow talk about nuclear secrets add a frisson of espionage, but it’s the domestic betrayals—husbands exposed, friendships fractured—that sting hardest.

Production whispers from the 2018 Budapest shoot (standing in for a fog-shrouded London) paint a set alive with period precision: vintage Jaguars purring down cobbled streets, beehive hairdos teased to toxic perfection, and costume designer Lindy Hemming (The Phantom Menace) draping the cast in Dior knockoffs that whisper of faded empire. The budget, a modest £5 million for six episodes, punches above its weight with practical effects—gunshots echoing in rain-slicked alleys, courtroom sketches flickering on newsreels like ghosts of propriety. Critics at the 2019 premiere raved: The Guardian called it “a scandalous delight that skewers the powerful with surgical wit,” while The Telegraph praised its “darkly comic edge, like The Thick of It in corsets.” Norton himself, fresh off McMafia‘s Russian roulette, saw parallels: “It’s all about the masks we wear in power games—whether corporate boardrooms or boudoirs.”

Now, six years on, The Trial of Christine Keeler arrives on Netflix amid a streamer war bloated with true-crime fluff and royal romps. Its timing couldn’t be sharper: as Britain grapples with its own scandals—from Partygate to PPE contracts—the series feels prophetic, a mirror to modern machinations. Social media is ablaze, with X users dubbing it “the ultimate guilty pleasure” and “Norton’s sexiest sleaze yet.” One viral thread dissects Ward’s suicide on the eve of his verdict—”a final fuck-you to the system,” as one fan put it—while TikTok edits mash Keeler’s strut with Dua Lipa beats, proving the Swinging Sixties still swings. Viewership metrics, though under wraps, suggest a sleeper hit: Netflix’s algorithm, ever the matchmaker, pairs it with Anatomy of a Scandal for maximum moral whiplash.

Yet beneath the bingeable sheen lies a sharper blade. This isn’t escapist fare; it’s a requiem for the illusion of innocence, where the real thriller is the banality of betrayal. Ward’s downfall—dying by barbiturate overdose before the jury could condemn him—exposes the establishment’s playbook: elevate the useful, discard the damaged. Keeler, who passed in 2017, emerges not as victim but victor, her later memoirs a defiant middle finger. In Norton’s hands, Ward becomes our uneasy proxy—a man who danced too close to the flame, his charisma curdling into cautionary tale. As the final episode fades on a rain-lashed Thames, you’re left gasping, not from plot twists (though the non-linear reveals land like left hooks), but from the recognition: power’s predators haven’t evolved; they’ve just swapped tweed for Twitter.

For Norton completists, it’s a gateway drug to his chameleon canon—pair it with Babyteeth‘s tender devastation or Nowhere Special‘s quiet heroism. For newcomers, it’s Netflix’s stealthiest gem, proving that the best thrillers aren’t about chases but the slow strangulation of secrets. In an age of deepfakes and diplomatic doublespeak, The Trial of Christine Keeler reminds us: the truth may set you free, but it starts with a whisper in the dark. Stream it now, and brace for the aftershocks. Britain was shocked once; this time, we’re forewarned—and utterly enthralled.