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Reviews

Written by: Sophie Pell

© 2025

A Spy Among Friends review: slow-burn espionage adaptation hits the mark

29 Oct, 2025

          Released at the tail end of 2022, A Spy Among Friends follows the true story of British special intelligence officer Harold Adrian Russell “Kim” Philby, who was discovered in 1963 to have been a double agent for the KGB for nearly 30 years — and the impact that this discovery had on his closest relationships. The six-part drama is based on the book by Ben Macintyre of the same name. 
          When adapting around true events, there is a strong temptation to focus the narrative around what did — or didn't, as may be more apt in the world of half-truths and espionage — happen. The MGM+ original series, luckily, does not give in to that temptation. Instead, writer Alexander Cary elects to keep the story centred within a set of key relationships, ones which have been broken apart from the very core by the reveal of Philby’s true loyalties. Not only does this mode of storytelling bring the facts, figures, and locations which naturally come with such a complex story as this to life, it also allows the viewer the opportunity to step into the emotions of the people who lived and worked over half a century ago.
          The series primarily follows Nicholas Elliot, played by Damian Lewis, Philby’s closest friend and fellow intelligence officer. However, the key uncredited figure in this post-war drama is something even more tangible. Grief. When we meet Kim Philby, he has defected to Russia and is still living. And yet there is a distinct delineation throughout the series between himself and those he “left behind".
          As a result, Elliot and American CIA agent James Jesus Angleton (Stephen Kunken) — two of Philby’s closest friends and, as they believed, confidants — are presented as they muddle through the loss of the man they thought they knew. In a brilliant, heartbreaking portrayal of a man in grief, Elliot hoards up the information he never know about his friend, storing it away like a box of old polaroids. As a man in grief, he defends his friend's skill and triumphs, even in the face of Philby’s undeniable betrayal to those people they had sworn to protect. And as a man in grief, he desperately attempts to stem the paranoia, fear, and mistrust which his friend’s departure has occasioned. Damian Lewis' performance subtly suggests, within Elliot's buttoned-up British politeness, that he may never be able to fully lay to rest the man whom he believed Kim to be, even as he is left to a life of obscurity and suspicion in an unfamiliar country.
          We can see this cleverly portrayed as Philby navigates the new life before him in communist USSR, where he appears to us like a ghost. He has, by deciding to run, been stripped of everything that had given him life up to that point. Love, devotion, and the belief of others in himself were the driving forces behind his will to live, to strive, to carry on. And though he has been credited with a "lucky escape", we soon realise that it will in fact be the death of him — if it hasn’t been already. The cinematography of Nanu Segal works towards showing this in flawless fashion. Through expert colour grading, a wan, tepid Moscow is presented as Philby's new home and contrasted with a post-war Britain which was certainly not bursting with colour, either. Nevertheless, the two locations feel distinct, as do the warm-toned flashbacks which show the “eligible and witty” version of Kim Philby which was presented to his friends and colleagues and which garnered him such loyalty for so long, even in the face of great suspicion.
          In brilliant contrast, the character of Lily Thomas, assigned by MI5 to investigate Philby’s defection, is artfully woven into the narrative in spite of the fact that she never actually existed. Her working-class background is used as a foil to show how the Secret Intelligence Service to which Elliot and Philby belong is formed around upper-class individuals. A ‘ruling’ class which Philby describes as “built on an ingrained belief that victory over one’s enemy is preordained, God-given”. Her practicality and compassion are used to show that, while not every member of the SIS was a spy, there was perhaps a certain lack of self-reflection in that sector which allowed for the existence of men like Philby to thrive within it for so long.
          Thomas isn’t just used as a contradictory figure to Elliot, however. Her quirks and home life offer a sense of colour and individuality beyond the facts of her gender and background. She is keen, intelligent, and has an innate belief in doing right by her country without falling into the trap of believing that it can do no wrong.
          In addition to the carefully crafted plot and contrasting characters, the practical elements of A Spy Among Friends are incredibly effective. The intentional and immersive production design uses everything from Blitz-era anti-aircraft blimps in the sky to period-appropriate Underground stations to create a world in which these characters can live, act, and feel without the distance modern viewers can often feel from historical periods.
          The makeup applied to Elliot, Philby, and their friend Flora Solomon — all of whom we see over a period of years — is continuous and convincing in showing subtly how time has affected each one. It is easy to forget, due to the makeup and carefully blurred flashback filters, that the actors are not exactly the age they appear at any given moment.
          While the double-takes and u-turns of this spy story can be confusing or even a little disorienting at times, the fact that the true heroes of the story are the people and the relationships between them — rather than factual information — rescues it from the dense, narrative quagmire which hinders many mid-century spy stories. Philby and Elliot; Elliot and Mrs Thomas; Jim Angleton and Philby. The love, pain, camaraderie, fear, distrust, and grief within each of these relationships shown in the midst of complete upheaval, both personally and nationally, is what truly sets this series apart.

          Carmen Pellegrino has succeeded in creating a space outside of the world in which we exist, and yet one which we cannot help but feel some affinity to. Set in a small Italian village which is slowly sinking down the mountainside along with the earth beneath it, Pellegrino introduces us to a cast of characters who may not be so different to the ones in our own lives. There is the town crier, whose news is largely ignored by the remainder of the village, but who sees his task as holy and downright necessary. There is the young woman, forced into a marriage against her will by a father too beaten down by his own failures to stand up for his daughter's future. And there is Estella, our Virgil, who introduces us into the village and its daily happenings through her own arrival as a nanny of sorts to one of the few wealthy families in the area.​​

          Though the book is written in a poetic, lyrical style which always had me reading just a few more pages than I planned to — and then a few more after that — it wasn't the novel's prose which made me keen to read the book to the last page. Although Estella is our main character, we are treated to another villager's point of view, one who is so startlingly different to Estella as to almost give the reader whiplash. This is Marcello, and where Estella's internal monologue is characterised by a slow, methodical, almost lethargic acceptance of the state of her reality, Marcello's is defined almost entirely by rage. Rage and spite. He is angry at Estella, an intruder into his domain and into the house which he is set to inherit. It is often unclear what Marcello's true mental state is at any given time, and this effect is only enhanced by the contradictions in both Estella's and Marcello's accounts of the time they spent together.

​          The harsh conflict between a teenager and his carer is underscored throughout the book by the living, and continually declining, character of the village itself. Pellegrino never passes up the opportunity to express to us, in captivating terms, the way in which the village has shaped the lives of its inhabitants. Even as we move from one tragic, isolated scene to the next, we are always reminded of the peeling paint, the decaying church, and the cloying dust from the arid, mediterranean landscape.

​          Overall, this book is defined by atmosphere and by a desire to explore the ways in which different people's lives intertwine with despair and solitude at the centre. If you're in search of car chases and loud, expressive arguments between characters who are larger than life, then perhaps it is a good idea to look elsewhere. However, if you have the time and the patience to sit down with these characters and listen to them as they detail the ups and downs of their rural existence, then this collection is certainly worth a look. As Pellegrino is not shy of playing with then-and-now timelines, you will certainly be rewarded with the very birth and demise of almost every one of the cast of characters in this novel. And you will, without a doubt, come out the other side with a new outlook on reality, perception, time, and maybe even on perspective itself.

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​Pellegrino, C. (2024, English Trans.) The Earth is Falling. Prototype Publishing: Newcastle Upon Tyne, UK. 

The Earth is Falling review: a slow and intriguing look at life on the outskirts

10 Jan, 2024

Written by: Sophie Pell

© 2024, 2025

I'm Your Man review: voyeurism and our need for technological connection

20 Aug, 2021

          It may be difficult to imagine a way in which machinery and voyeurism interact, but in I’m Your Man/Ich bin dein Mensch (dir. Maria Shrader, 2021), the desire to view, or be viewed by, other people is reevaluated through the ever-changing influence of technology on our lives. The concern with how technology fits into modern society is not new; as far back as Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927) filmmakers have been seeking to examine the potential practical, and moral, impacts of intelligent technology on people. So, with nearly a hundred years to digest the topic, hasn’t it gotten a little passé?

            Well, no. As seen in the feminist dialogue, with Laura Mulvey’s refreshing adaptations on the male gaze and sexuality, different areas of film study are constantly being renewed in response to changing sociological and environmental conditions. And new technology, particularly AI, has provided an opportunity for a fresh look at the things which make us most human- how we view each other, and how we interact with each other. Because I’m Your Man doesn’t examine voyeurism in a vacuum, which would be nearly impossible, it also looks at the necessary consideration of gender. I’m Your Man is a German film from director Maria Shrader in which an accomplished historian (Maren Eggert) reluctantly agrees to test a prototype robot designed for one purpose: to be the perfect partner. The film focuses primarily on Eggert as she navigates the ramifications of opening up to something which you know is not really listening. But it hides a deeper purpose, too.

            Every aspect of this film is working, behind the scenes, to implicate the viewer directly in the questions it raises. At first glance, these questions seem to be ones that have been asked before. Will AI ever be considered human, with rights and identities? Do robots reflect humanity or present a threat to it? But, as the audience watches Dr. Felser fall into that classic science-fiction trap of ascribing human feelings to something without them, they unwittingly follow her lead. Watching this film in a cinema surrounded by other people, it is clear that, even while being fully aware of the circumstances, we cannot help but project our “humanness” onto other objects.

            This is where voyeurism comes in, and it is why this film does such a fantastic, sneaky job of examining it within the realm of AI. A crucial moment at the start of the film shows Dr. Felser being introduced to her tailor-made robot, Tom (Dan Stevens). It’s an intentional, yet smooth choice to show Tom for the first time via a POV shot, where the audience replaces Dr. Felser as the object of Tom’s attention. This creates, right from the outset, a double-examination; as the audience takes him in — looking at him in that brash, open way only film allows — Tom responds in kind, his own direct gaze returning the examination. Another tactic used to great effect is the well-loved technique of repetition. One of the very few shots in the film which is repeated multiple times is Dr. Felser watching Tom's actions on the street from her balcony. Voyeurism and balconies have a long and glorious history dating back to Biblical times, but I’m Your Man begs further investigation into the role of gender in this very physical power dynamic.

            When a woman stands on a balcony, she is being viewed, she is the object. This film, however, reverses that by giving Dr. Felser the binoculars — metaphorically. The combination of this gaze with the frequent, almost rude discussions about Tom’s appearance both help to ascribe to Tom, a robot, qualities which are normally given to women. Characters frequently comment on his body as if he is not there and, when Dr. Felser rejects his advances, he sulks in a bubble bath filled with rose petals, a pouty look on his face. His default setting seems to be the admired and ultimately rejected 'girl next door'.

            That image of the “ideal partner” — in reality filled with wires and circuit boards — lounging in the most traditionally feminine of settings, is what this film describes so well. Not only has gender been reversed though technology, but the audience experiences a new form of voyeurism in response. We feel caught out in our gazing when Tom instinctively looks up from the street, locking eyes with both Dr Felser and us, and we are forced to inspect ourselves instead. Why do we have this desire, this need, to gaze at everything we see and ascribe to each thing our own desires? As Dr. Felser concludes, the ripples of these self-examinations could be our final social downfall. But are we willing to give them up? She certainly wasn't.

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​I’m Your Man (Ich bin dein Mensch) 2021 dir. Maria Schrader

Written by: Sophie Pell

© 2021, 2025

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