TL;DR: Keeley Hawes is magnificent in The Assassin, a smart, stylish, and hilariously absurd menopausal hitwoman drama on Prime Video. Come for the gunfights, stay for the mother-son banter.

There are television shows that sneak up on you—quietly, almost apologetically, as if they’re not sure they deserve your attention—and then there are television shows like The Assassin. Keeley Hawes kicks down the door, drops a glass of ouzo on the floor, and proceeds to charm, terrify, and make you laugh in equal measure. I’ve watched a lot of prestige television in my life, from the operatic heights of The Sopranos to the stylish sadism of Killing Eve, but I can’t remember the last time I felt so giddily entertained while also feeling like the show was secretly daring me to think about mortality, motherhood, and the glorious chaos of middle age.

Yes, you read that right: this is a menopausal hitwoman drama. And not in the ironic, wink-wink, comic book way either. The Assassin takes its conceit dead seriously, and then makes it absurd, and then makes it profound. It’s the kind of tonal juggling act that should not work, but Hawes—playing Julie, a former contract killer who has been trying (and failing) to live anonymously in a sun-drenched Greek village—makes it work. And it’s exactly that mixture of ferocity, timing, and a kind of lived-in exhaustion that makes the show resonate on a level I didn’t expect.

The Menopause and the Gun: A Match Made in Hell

There’s a throwaway line early in the series that made me spit out my drink: “Do you know what the most dangerous weapon in the world is? A woman with hot flashes and a grudge.” It’s a joke, sure, but it’s also the kind of joke that hides a thorn. Menopause in television has almost always been played as tragedy, as comedy, or worse—as something to be ignored entirely. But The Assassin weaponizes it, literally. The sheer joy of seeing Keeley Hawes stride through a firefight while also making sure her handbag has room for paracetamol is the kind of representation we didn’t know we needed.

And it’s not just a gimmick. The show’s whole rhythm comes from Julie’s bodily reality colliding with her professional one. There are moments when her composure cracks, not because she’s outgunned, but because her body is reminding her that the world is unfair and unforgiving. That feels real. That feels dangerous. And in a landscape where female assassins are often drawn as hyper-sexy, hyper-efficient archetypes, Julie’s weary, sardonic practicality feels like a revolution.

Keeley Hawes as Julie: The Performance of Her Career

Keeley Hawes has always been one of those actors who could elevate whatever material she’s in. I still remember her icy brilliance in Line of Duty, and her aching vulnerability in It’s a Sin. But here, she finds a gear I didn’t know she had. Julie is funny without ever being clownish, terrifying without ever being cartoonish, and most importantly, utterly believable as a woman who has killed people and also had to nag her son about eating his vegetables.

The interplay with Freddie Highmore (playing Edward, her vegan, slightly bumbling, adult son) is where the show really sings. Highmore is one of those performers who knows exactly how to pitch sincerity against absurdity. Watching him try to confront his mother about their family’s dark secrets while also being deeply offended that she doesn’t understand the difference between tofu and tempeh is a joy. Their scenes together pulse with comedic timing, but also with an undercurrent of real sadness. The show doesn’t shy away from the fact that Julie’s chosen career has left her son permanently unmoored.

The Assassin as Entertainment Engine

Let’s not beat around the bush: The Assassin is ridiculous. At one point, nearly an entire Greek village gets massacred because a sniper is having a bad day. At another, Julie commandeers a billionaire’s yacht with the casual efficiency of someone ordering a flat white. The show’s confidence in its own ludicrousness is what makes it so watchable. You’re not supposed to take it as gritty realism, and the writers know this. Instead, it’s closer to a fever dream, a pulp novel written by someone who has just downed three espressos and is halfway through a midlife crisis.

And yet, the action sequences slap. They’re tightly choreographed, briskly edited, and full of visual flair. There’s a shootout in an olive grove that feels like it was storyboarded by a painter; there’s a knife fight in the galley of a yacht that’s as funny as it is tense. Director after director in prestige TV could take notes here: action doesn’t need to be bloated to be effective.

Subplots That Shouldn’t Work but Somehow Do

Here’s where the show really surprised me. Usually, when you start piling on subplots—Libyan prisons, Russian gangsters, mysterious women sketching in art classes—you risk collapsing under your own ambition. But The Assassinhandles its narrative chaos like a pro juggler. You get a taste of each world, each eccentric character, and then the show snaps back to Julie and Edward before you’ve had time to complain.

David Dencik’s Jasper, the hapless Dutchman who gets adopted by a band of terrifying Russians in prison, feels like he’s wandered in from a Coen brothers movie. Gina Gershon as Marie, casually sketching a revelation in charcoal, is the kind of late-series twist that shouldn’t work but does, because Gershon brings such magnetic weirdness to it. Even Alan Dale, forever “that guy from Neighbours” in my brain, manages to make Aaron Cross into something more than a stock villain.

Humor as Survival

What makes The Assassin special is its humor. Not just in the witty banter (though there’s plenty of that), but in the way humor becomes a survival strategy for the characters and the show itself. Julie and Edward’s exchanges are barbed but tender. Luka, the local villager who survives a massacre and then bonds with Julie over middle-aged medication, is both comic relief and a reminder of the collateral damage in her world. The humor never undercuts the stakes; it enhances them. It reminds us that life, even at its bloodiest, is still absurd.

The Verdict

I could nitpick—sure, some of the coincidences stretch credulity, and some of the tonal shifts will be too much for viewers looking for straight realism. But honestly? That’s missing the point. The Assassin is a deliriously fun, surprisingly thoughtful, and immaculately crafted piece of television. It’s stylish without being empty, funny without being flippant, and violent without being nihilistic. In short: it’s exactly what television should be in 2025.

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