Jeremy Strong Hunts Evil as Peter Morgan Trades Crowns for Nazi Thrills

Olivia Bennett, 11/19/2025 British TV glamour goes rogue as “The Boys From Brazil” and “Line of Duty” return, volleying between Nazi-hunting intrigue and anti-corruption drama. Prestige, peril, and Prada—this is appointment viewing for anyone craving both searing history and razor-sharp thrills.

It’s a lurch in tone, yes, but one that feels deliciously on the pulse of now. Here’s Jeremy Strong—or Kendall Roy with a new, sharper brief—stepping into the haunted shoes of Yakov Liebermann, a Holocaust survivor with a vendetta for the ages. Strong’s approach to acting has been called surgical, maybe even fanatical, by co-stars and critics alike. Just imagine the layers he’ll chip away at in Liebermann: every line, every glance, every tremor.

Not one to assemble a bland roster, Morgan surrounds Strong with a cast that reads less like a call sheet, more like a fever dream after a particularly wild night at the BAFTAs. Gillian Anderson, always poised to eviscerate with a single, glacial glance, finds herself trading palace walls for the shadows of Cold War paranoia. Daniel Brühl, August Diehl, Lizzy Caplan, and Shira Haas—each a familiar face to fans of unsettling, challenging drama—round out a crew that would make any casting director weak at the knees.

Some will remember the 1978 film adaptation, where Olivier and Peck squared off in an icy duel. Funny thing—few classics manage to stay so sharp on the tongue. This time, there’s talk of a series that isn’t so much rebooting as it is re-forging: same dangerous metals, but hammered in new fire. As one producer put it, Morgan is still dissecting the forces that carved up the 20th century—except now, intimacy collides with historic trauma, and the results might singe.

The backdrop stretches from the raw, shellshocked years trailing WWII, right through the polyester-soaked haze of the 1970s. Think of it as a timeline with a pulse—one thumping with disco and dread, where Liebermann’s quest for justice (or vengeance? The line blurs) tangles with a threat rumored to resurrect a Fourth Reich. August Diehl’s Dr. Meinhardt, the villain presumed lost to time, seems determined to remind viewers that some ghosts never stay buried; they burrow back into the sunlight just when history wants to move on.

A project like this isn’t content to stay put geographically, either. Shooting sprawls from the UK’s foggy stoicism down to the sun-baked paranoia of Spain, with stops in Bulgaria and Germany along the way. It's less "film shoot" and more an elaborate, continent-hopping treasure hunt—if the treasure were buried secrets no one wants unearthed. At the wheel, Alex Gabassi, a name familiar to aficionados of prestige drama, steering the whole affair with a blend of tension and wit. The fingerprints of World Productions (they’re still basking in “Line of Duty” afterglow) slap against the luxury polish of Orchid Pictures—a partnership oiled for both cinematic allure and algorithmic success.

And Netflix? Ever insatiable. The platform’s hunger for buzzy, prestige-laden drama feels almost mythic at this stage. Timing-wise, it couldn’t be savvier; in 2025, viewers are hooked on high-concept, historically-rooted thrillers that don’t apologize for swagger or edge. Morgan’s hop from tiara-adorned hallways to the much dustier, blood-stained jungles of postwar pursuit isn’t just exciting—it’s a necessary jolt for a medium addicted to reinvention.

Meanwhile, the airwaves across the UK carry a different kind of tension. “Line of Duty” is back, no big surprise to anyone counting the minutes since AC-12 last squared off with Britain’s murkiest cops. The return comes with the kind of build-up usually reserved for state funerals or football finals. Martin Compston, Vicky McClure, Adrian Dunbar—these aren’t just actors anymore; they’re stock characters in Britain’s collective anxiety dreams.

But AC-12 isn’t what it once was; it’s been handed a new badge, the Inspectorate of Police Standards. A demotion, some snicker, or maybe just another layer of obfuscation for those who love their bureaucracies knotty and their conspiracies layered. The show’s taste for labyrinthine investigations hasn’t dulled. This time, the focus sharpens on a rising star within the force—a golden boy with shadows in his past, whispers gathering at the edges of every corridor. And Jed Mercurio, always ready with a quip, notes with a smirk that since corruption “ended” in the UK while the series was off air, he’s had to exercise that notorious imagination.

Here’s a thing: finale numbers in the tens of millions. Nearly every recent BBC reunion has chased nostalgia, but “Line of Duty” stares it down, shrugs, then cranks the stakes higher anyway. What’s notable isn’t just the audience size—impressive as it may be—but the sense that the stakes actually matter. When real-world headlines trade in institutional rot and slippery morality, Mercurio’s ability to bottle that anxiety for prime-time has never felt sharper.

Beneath all the noise, comparisons between “The Boys From Brazil” and “Line of Duty” keep nipping at the ankles. Both probe the underbelly of power; both wrap uncomfortable truths in the trappings of genre (thriller, prestige, call it what you will). There’s an electric current running through each—sometimes a slow tease, sometimes a gut-punch. Evil here doesn’t announce itself with villainous laughs but walks in, gloved and tailored, asking if anyone’s seen its cufflinks.

Red carpets and glamour get their due, sure. But Hollywood, London, Berlin—take your pick—has always thrived on that basic tension: the elegant surface, the festering secrets below. Perhaps that’s why in 2025, with history as messy as ever and entertainment only growing slicker, audiences gravitate to stories willing to crack that veneer. Dry martini in hand, trench coat on the hook, the invitation isn’t so much to solve the mystery as to live in its shadows for a while.

And perhaps in the end, that’s the pull—an age of spectacle that doesn’t flinch from its dark corners. The entertainment gods, after all, seem to have thrown down the gauntlet: humanity, with all its contradictions, never goes out of style. Glamour and grit, tuxedos and trauma—this is the stuff of stories that linger long after the credits roll.

When Peter Morgan sets aside his royal trappings, what does he pick up in their place? Apparently, something a little less ceremonial and a lot more sinister—a loaded Luger, perhaps, and with it, a taste for the darker contours of 20th-century history. That’s the word swirling around Morgan’s latest venture, as Netflix gives the green light to “The Boys From Brazil,” a five-episode plunge into the catacombs of alternate history, swerving from palace intrigue (where Morgan has just crowned six seasons of “The Crown”) straight into the tangled underworld of Nazi fugitives and chilling genetic gambits.It’s a lurch in tone, yes, but one that feels deliciously on the pulse of now. Here’s Jeremy Strong—or Kendall Roy with a new, sharper brief—stepping into the haunted shoes of Yakov Liebermann, a Holocaust survivor with a vendetta for the ages. Strong’s approach to acting has been called surgical, maybe even fanatical, by co-stars and critics alike. Just imagine the layers he’ll chip away at in Liebermann: every line, every glance, every tremor.Not one to assemble a bland roster, Morgan surrounds Strong with a cast that reads less like a call sheet, more like a fever dream after a particularly wild night at the BAFTAs. Gillian Anderson, always poised to eviscerate with a single, glacial glance, finds herself trading palace walls for the shadows of Cold War paranoia. Daniel Brühl, August Diehl, Lizzy Caplan, and Shira Haas—each a familiar face to fans of unsettling, challenging drama—round out a crew that would make any casting director weak at the knees.Some will remember the 1978 film adaptation, where Olivier and Peck squared off in an icy duel. Funny thing—few classics manage to stay so sharp on the tongue. This time, there’s talk of a series that isn’t so much rebooting as it is re-forging: same dangerous metals, but hammered in new fire. As one producer put it, Morgan is still dissecting the forces that carved up the 20th century—except now, intimacy collides with historic trauma, and the results might singe.The backdrop stretches from the raw, shellshocked years trailing WWII, right through the polyester-soaked haze of the 1970s. Think of it as a timeline with a pulse—one thumping with disco and dread, where Liebermann’s quest for justice (or vengeance? The line blurs) tangles with a threat rumored to resurrect a Fourth Reich. August Diehl’s Dr. Meinhardt, the villain presumed lost to time, seems determined to remind viewers that some ghosts never stay buried; they burrow back into the sunlight just when history wants to move on.A project like this isn’t content to stay put geographically, either. Shooting sprawls from the UK’s foggy stoicism down to the sun-baked paranoia of Spain, with stops in Bulgaria and Germany along the way. It's less "film shoot" and more an elaborate, continent-hopping treasure hunt—if the treasure were buried secrets no one wants unearthed. At the wheel, Alex Gabassi, a name familiar to aficionados of prestige drama, steering the whole affair with a blend of tension and wit. The fingerprints of World Productions (they’re still basking in “Line of Duty” afterglow) slap against the luxury polish of Orchid Pictures—a partnership oiled for both cinematic allure and algorithmic success.And Netflix? Ever insatiable. The platform’s hunger for buzzy, prestige-laden drama feels almost mythic at this stage. Timing-wise, it couldn’t be savvier; in 2025, viewers are hooked on high-concept, historically-rooted thrillers that don’t apologize for swagger or edge. Morgan’s hop from tiara-adorned hallways to the much dustier, blood-stained jungles of postwar pursuit isn’t just exciting—it’s a necessary jolt for a medium addicted to reinvention.Meanwhile, the airwaves across the UK carry a different kind of tension. “Line of Duty” is back, no big surprise to anyone counting the minutes since AC-12 last squared off with Britain’s murkiest cops. The return comes with the kind of build-up usually reserved for state funerals or football finals. Martin Compston, Vicky McClure, Adrian Dunbar—these aren’t just actors anymore; they’re stock characters in Britain’s collective anxiety dreams.But AC-12 isn’t what it once was; it’s been handed a new badge, the Inspectorate of Police Standards. A demotion, some snicker, or maybe just another layer of obfuscation for those who love their bureaucracies knotty and their conspiracies layered. The show’s taste for labyrinthine investigations hasn’t dulled. This time, the focus sharpens on a rising star within the force—a golden boy with shadows in his past, whispers gathering at the edges of every corridor. And Jed Mercurio, always ready with a quip, notes with a smirk that since corruption “ended” in the UK while the series was off air, he’s had to exercise that notorious imagination.Here’s a thing: finale numbers in the tens of millions. Nearly every recent BBC reunion has chased nostalgia, but “Line of Duty” stares it down, shrugs, then cranks the stakes higher anyway. What’s notable isn’t just the audience size—impressive as it may be—but the sense that the stakes actually matter. When real-world headlines trade in institutional rot and slippery morality, Mercurio’s ability to bottle that anxiety for prime-time has never felt sharper.Beneath all the noise, comparisons between “The Boys From Brazil” and “Line of Duty” keep nipping at the ankles. Both probe the underbelly of power; both wrap uncomfortable truths in the trappings of genre (thriller, prestige, call it what you will). There’s an electric current running through each—sometimes a slow tease, sometimes a gut-punch. Evil here doesn’t announce itself with villainous laughs but walks in, gloved and tailored, asking if anyone’s seen its cufflinks.Red carpets and glamour get their due, sure. But Hollywood, London, Berlin—take your pick—has always thrived on that basic tension: the elegant surface, the festering secrets below. Perhaps that’s why in 2025, with history as messy as ever and entertainment only growing slicker, audiences gravitate to stories willing to crack that veneer. Dry martini in hand, trench coat on the hook, the invitation isn’t so much to solve the mystery as to live in its shadows for a while.And perhaps in the end, that’s the pull—an age of spectacle that doesn’t flinch from its dark corners. The entertainment gods, after all, seem to have thrown down the gauntlet: humanity, with all its contradictions, never goes out of style. Glamour and grit, tuxedos and trauma—this is the stuff of stories that linger long after the credits roll.