Author: Denis Bedoya

  • ITV’s New MI5 Thriller Tests Trust at Home and Inside Intelligence

    At a moment when British television is rethinking how espionage stories are told, ITV is betting that the most dangerous conflicts no longer unfold only in safe houses or interrogation rooms, but inside marriages, offices and institutional politics. That wager arrives this weekend with Betrayal, a four-part MI5 drama that premieres on Sunday, February 8, at 9pm, positioning domestic fallout—not foreign adversaries—as its central threat.

    The series launches with an aggressive rollout. Episodes one and two will air on consecutive nights, Sunday and Monday, replacing After the Flood in the schedule, while the full box set becomes immediately available on ITVX following the first broadcast. The strategy signals confidence that audiences will want to move quickly through a story built on momentum, suspicion and moral uncertainty.

    At the centre of Betrayal is John Hughes, played by Shaun Evans, a long-serving MI5 officer who no longer feels aligned with the “progressive” intelligence service he works for. The show opens with a professional gamble that detonates both his career and his private life. Acting on instinct rather than protocol, Hughes arranges a clandestine meeting with a British Iranian informant connected to the Stockport criminal underworld, who claims to have intelligence about an imminent terrorist plot on UK soil.

    The meeting collapses into violence. Before the informant can pass on what he knows, he is assassinated. Hughes kills the gunman in self-defence, a split-second act that triggers scrutiny rather than praise. Instead of being protected, he becomes the subject of an internal investigation led by his superior, Simone Grant, portrayed by Nikki Amuka-Bird. From that moment, Betrayal frames MI5 less as a monolithic shield and more as a pressure cooker, where loyalty and liability are separated by fine margins.

    Espionage, marriage and the cost of secrecy

    The professional fallout runs in parallel with a domestic reckoning. Hughes’ wife, Claire, played by Romola Garai, has reached the limits of what she can tolerate from a life structured around omissions and half-truths. As the investigation tightens and Hughes refuses to disengage from the case, the strain on their marriage becomes inseparable from the security crisis itself. The series repeatedly asks whether secrecy in service of the state inevitably corrodes intimacy at home.

    Complicating matters further is Mehreen Askari-Evans, an intelligence operative played by Zahra Ahmadi, who is assigned to take over Hughes’ role. As they work together, Hughes grows convinced that a hardline faction within the Iranian regime is connected to the suspected plot. At the same time, he becomes increasingly uneasy that the real danger may not lie overseas at all, but within the system he serves. The question driving the series is blunt: can he identify the true target and prevent a major attack before his isolation—professional and personal—becomes irreversible?

    Betrayal is written by playwright David Eldridge and directed by Julian Jarrold, a BAFTA and Emmy nominee. Their approach favours psychological consequence over spectacle, grounding national-security stakes in individual choices. That focus is reinforced by an ensemble cast that includes Gamba Cole, Omid Djalili, Matthew Tennyson, Hayley Tamaddon, Anthony Flanagan and Paddy Rowan, alongside Evans, Garai, Amuka-Bird and Ahmadi. Notably, Evans and Rowan are both Liverpool natives, a detail that fed into the show’s production geography.

    Although the drama is set primarily in Manchester, much of it was filmed in Liverpool, with camera crews working on Rumford Street in June 2025 and staging a key sequence at Bootle Strand. The locations are not treated as anonymous backdrops. Instead, the series leans into recognisable urban spaces to counterbalance the abstraction often associated with intelligence dramas.

    Evans has spoken about the personal significance of filming in his home city, noting that his family is based there and describing the experience as unusually meaningful. He highlighted the crew’s energy and the rare access to parts of Liverpool he had not previously seen, calling the shoot a special period in his life. Ahmadi, who has spent considerable time working in Manchester, echoed the sentiment from a different angle. Having visited Liverpool only once before, she said the production revealed the city’s architecture, musical heritage and food scene to her, reshaping her understanding of the place.

    Those details underscore what Betrayal is attempting to do differently. Rather than treating espionage as an abstract contest of intelligence agencies, the series anchors its story in lived environments and relationships. Simone Grant embodies the institutional pressures of leadership within MI5, while Claire Hughes represents the human cost of constant concealment. Mehreen Askari-Evans, meanwhile, introduces a counterpoint to Hughes’ instincts, challenging his assumptions even as she becomes entangled in his unresolved case.

    As Betrayal arrives on ITV and ITVX, it enters a crowded field of spy dramas but distinguishes itself by shifting the centre of gravity away from gadgets and geopolitics. Its premise suggests that the most destabilising betrayals are not always ideological, but emotional—and that the line between protecting the country and destroying one’s own life is thinner than intelligence officers are trained to admit.

    Whether viewers choose to watch weekly or consume the entire series in one sitting, the show’s release marks ITV’s latest attempt to recalibrate the modern spy thriller for an audience increasingly sceptical of clean heroes and clear enemies. In Betrayal, trust is scarce, motives are opaque, and the damage, once done, is permanent.

  • Rang De Basanti at 20: Why the Film’s Afterlife Matters Now

    Two decades after Rang De Basanti first unsettled and inspired Indian audiences, its makers are no longer just celebrating a hit film. They are reckoning with a legacy that has outlived its moment—and, inconveniently for everyone involved, remains politically and culturally relevant in 2026.

    That tension was on quiet display in Mumbai on February 7, 2026, when the principal cast and director gathered for a special 20th-anniversary screening of the 2006 film. What might have been a routine nostalgia exercise instead became a reminder of how rarely popular Hindi cinema produces a work that refuses to age gracefully.

    The reunion brought together Aamir Khan, Soha Ali Khan, Kunal Kapoor, Sharman Joshi, Atul Kulkarni and director Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra. Siddharth, who made his Hindi film debut with Rang De Basanti, also attended. The group arrived wearing matching hoodies bearing the film’s title—an intentionally casual gesture that nonetheless signaled shared ownership of a project that has followed them for 20 years, whether they asked for it or not.

    The timing of the gathering mattered. In an industry increasingly dominated by short theatrical windows and algorithm-driven storytelling, Rang De Basanti continues to be cited in debates about cinema’s role in public life. Its anniversary landed at a moment when questions about youth engagement, political disillusionment and institutional accountability have again moved to the foreground—subjects the film tackled long before they were fashionable, or safe.

    A film that refused to stay on screen

    Released in 2006, Rang De Basanti was written, produced and directed by Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra as a coming-of-age political drama that deliberately blurred timelines. The story follows a British film student, played by Alice Patten in her Hindi debut, who travels to India to make a documentary on five freedom fighters from the revolutionary movement. She casts a group of contemporary Delhi University friends—played by Aamir Khan, Siddharth, Atul Kulkarni, Sharman Joshi and Kunal Kapoor—who begin by treating the project casually.

    That detachment does not last. As the young men reenact historical resistance, they are forced to confront modern corruption and political apathy after the death of a close friend. Waheeda Rehman and Soha Ali Khan appear in key supporting roles, with Soha’s character paired opposite R Madhavan. The film’s central argument—that history is not finished with the present—proved uncomfortable in the best possible way.

    Critical and institutional recognition followed. Rang De Basanti won four National Film Awards, including Best Popular Film Providing Wholesome Entertainment. It was nominated for Best Foreign Language Film at the 2007 BAFTA Awards and selected as India’s official entry for both the Golden Globe Awards and the Academy Awards in the same category. Awards, however, were only the measurable part of its impact.

    The film’s influence extended well beyond cinemas. Its soundtrack, composed by A.R. Rahman, became a generational marker, with songs such as “Roobaroo” and “Luka Chuppi” functioning less like chart hits and more like emotional shorthand. In the years following its release, the film was repeatedly cited by young activists as an entry point into civic engagement—an outcome no studio marketing plan could have reliably engineered.

    Memory, meaning and what endures

    At the anniversary screening, the cast marked the occasion with a cake-cutting that was more intimate than ceremonial. Soha Ali Khan shared moments from the evening on Instagram, noting that while not everyone could attend, “the spirit was still.” The understatement felt appropriate for a film that never relied on subtlety but always demanded sincerity.

    For Sharman Joshi, the retrospective came with a reminder of the film’s unusual reach. He has previously recalled a special screening in Delhi attended by then prime minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee, who sought him out afterward and quoted a line from “Roobaroo”—“Sooraj ko main nigal gaya”—recognising, as Joshi later put it, the poetry embedded in the film’s defiance. It was a rare moment when popular cinema crossed cleanly into political and literary consciousness.

    Director Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra, present at the Mumbai screening, has often resisted framing Rang De Basanti as prophecy or instruction manual. Yet its endurance suggests that audiences continue to return to it not for answers, but for permission—to question authority, to feel anger without cynicism, and to imagine agency where none seems readily available. That the film still provokes such reactions in 2026 is less comforting than revealing.

    As the screening ended and the audience dispersed, the mood was reflective rather than triumphant. The cast’s matching hoodies and shared memories hinted at pride, but also at the quiet burden of having participated in something that refuses to be archived. Some films age into comfort viewing. Rang De Basanti has not.

    Twenty years on, its creators are left with an unusual legacy: a work that continues to be invoked whenever public frustration spills into cultural expression. That may not be the easiest anniversary gift, but it is arguably the most honest. And yes, if you’re wondering, very few films get that problem.