TL;DR: Down Cemetery Road is a masterfully written, sharply acted espionage thriller that proves Emma Thompson still has the range to outwit, outsnark, and outclass just about anyone on screen. Ruth Wilson matches her step for step in a story that’s as funny as it is ferocious. Come for the explosions, stay for the sarcasm — and prepare to wish Zoë Boehm was your life coach.

Every once in a while, a TV thriller comes along that doesn’t just grip you — it struts into your living room, slaps the remote out of your hand, and dares you to blink. Down Cemetery Road, the latest Apple TV+ series adapted from Mick Herron’s debut novel (yes, that Mick Herron of Slow Horses fame), is one of those rare beasts. It’s whip-smart, ruthlessly funny, and elevated to near-perfection by the unstoppable force that is Emma Thompson.

Let me get this out of the way early: Thompson as Zoë Boehm is a revelation. A private investigator who operates somewhere between Sherlock Holmes and a burnt-out HR manager who’s seen too much, she’s the kind of woman who could intimidate a CIA director and still make it home in time to feed her cat. In other words — she’s peak Herron: cynical, layered, hilarious, and heartbreakingly human.

A Thriller That Refuses to Waste Your Time

Adapted by Slow Horses writer Morwenna Banks, Down Cemetery Road moves with the kind of precision most thrillers can only dream of. No filler. No pointless subplots about traumatized teenagers or secret affairs in the countryside. Every scene hums with intent, every line of dialogue lands like a dry British punchline.

We open with Ruth Wilson’s Sarah Tucker — an art restorer who’s clearly one nervous tick away from torching her husband’s investment portfolio. Her marriage to Mark (Tom Riley, smarmy perfection) is hanging by a thread thinner than his sense of self-awareness. Their dinner party — which could double as a hostage situation — ends in literal flames when a neighboring house explodes, killing two adults and injuring a child.

What follows is part conspiracy thriller, part psychological spiral. Sarah’s obsession with finding the injured child — a girl named Dinah — leads her straight into Zoë Boehm’s orbit, and that’s when the show really starts to flex its muscles. Thompson and Wilson are electric together; their dynamic is the brittle, wary kind that only two women with battle scars (and excellent sarcasm) can pull off.

Thompson’s Boehm: A Role Model with No F***s Left to Give

Zoë Boehm doesn’t do small talk. Or prosecco. Or emotional bonding. She’s a woman carved out of flint and fed on disappointment — which is to say, she’s instantly relatable. When she tells a client, “I don’t drink prosecco and I don’t bond emotionally,” it lands like a battle cry for every woman who’s ever had to smile through a meeting that should’ve been an email.

There’s a quiet brilliance in how Thompson plays her. She’s funny without ever reaching for it, sad without wallowing, and unflinchingly sharp even when surrounded by bureaucratic idiocy. If Gary Oldman’s Jackson Lamb in Slow Horses is the archetype of male, nicotine-stained decay, Thompson’s Boehm is his mirror opposite — competence and control personified, with just enough emotional shrapnel to keep things interesting.

And can we just appreciate that, unlike Jackson Lamb, Zoë looks like she’s at least familiar with the concept of soap? The hygiene upgrade alone deserves an Emmy.

Ruth Wilson, the Quiet Powerhouse

Ruth Wilson, meanwhile, continues her reign as the queen of simmering chaos. Her Sarah Tucker is that person you’d find standing outside a burning building, muttering “I told you so” while secretly wondering if she started the fire. There’s a fragility to her obsession — a suggestion of past mental health struggles — but Wilson plays it with such nuance that you’re never sure whether Sarah is unraveling or uncovering a truth everyone else is too cowardly to face.

Her chemistry with Thompson is spellbinding. They spar, they circle each other, they form a wary alliance — and it’s all anchored by the sense that these two women, despite their wildly different lives, are fighting the same invisible war against mediocrity and moral compromise.

Espionage, Bureaucracy, and Beautiful British Madness

Of course, it wouldn’t be a Mick Herron story without a healthy dose of bureaucratic absurdity. Cue the Ministry of Defence subplot, where Adeel Akhtar’s nervy handler Hamza Malik finds himself in the crosshairs of his terrifying boss, “C” (a pitch-perfect Darren Boyd, playing the role with the dead-eyed charm of a shark in a suit).

There’s a rogue agent nicknamed “Wreck-It Ralph,” a cover-up gone nuclear, and enough backroom intrigue to make Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy look like an office comedy. Herron’s trademark dry humor is everywhere — in the dialogue, in the silences, in the resigned way Malik stares into the abyss of governmental incompetence.

Fehinti Balogun and Nathan Stewart-Jarrett round out the supporting cast with effortless charisma, adding texture and tension without ever stealing the spotlight. It’s a testament to Banks’ adaptation that even the tertiary players feel alive — flawed, frightened, and absurdly funny in that way only the British can pull off in the middle of national scandal.

A Masterclass in Adaptation

If you’ve read Herron’s debut novel, you’ll notice that Down Cemetery Road tightens and modernizes the source material beautifully. Gone are the few clunky pacing issues of the book; in their place is a slick, eight-episode structure that knows exactly when to twist the knife.

The cinematography is stylish but not showy — think Bodyguard meets Killing Eve, with just enough grit to keep things grounded. And the score? Pure tension candy. It hums, it teases, it knows exactly when to drop out and let a silence do the heavy lifting.

Verdict: A Darkly Funny, Relentlessly Smart Thriller

Down Cemetery Road is the kind of series that reminds you why Apple TV+ has quietly become the grown-up streaming service for adults with taste and trauma. It’s sharp, darkly funny, and anchored by two performances that are nothing short of spectacular.

Emma Thompson delivers her best television work in decades — and if there’s any justice, Zoë Boehm will become the next great British antiheroine, inspiring a thousand think-pieces about “women who’ve run out of patience.”