I watched the press conference for Enola Holmes 3 with the same morbid fascination I reserve for watching a man disassemble a grandfather clock. Millie Bobby Brown and Louis Partridge were paraded before us as the vanguard of British talent, as if forgetting that the first film was a passable diversion and the second a bloated exercise in style over substance. The streaming giants have hoodwinked us into believing that a multimillion-pound platform equals cultural relevance.
We are in the midst of a great intellectual decadence, where audiences mistake algorithmic recommendations for genuine artistic achievement. The Victorians knew better. They understood that empire was built on substance, not on the ephemeral thrill of a weekly drop.
I ask you: when was the last time a streaming series left you with a thought that lingered beyond the credits? Brown and Partridge are talented, yes, but they are trapped in a system that fetishises British accents while hollowing out our industry. The real tragedy is not that Enola Holmes 3 exists, but that we applaud it as a victory.
It is time to admit that streaming has made us lazy consumers of culture. We prefer the comfortable mediocrity of a predictable franchise to the discomfort of challenging cinema. And so, we get more of the same: a pretty period piece with no soul.
This is not British talent on display. This is the last gasp of a creative class that has sold its birthright for a subscription.
