In the final days of 2014, when my wife and I were both laid low by a brutal bout of the flu, there wasn’t much we could do besides lie in bed, shivering and sweating in turns, and look for something—anything—to distract us. That something became The Honourable Woman, Hugo Blick’s critically acclaimed miniseries starring Maggie Gyllenhaal as an Anglo-Jewish businesswoman drawn into a dense web of political intrigue, espionage, and long-buried secrets.

We were immediately pulled in by Gyllenhaal’s performance, the mounting sense of dread, and the show’s striking visual style. But as the episodes went on, the story became increasingly difficult to follow. We kept pausing to ask each other, “Wait—what exactly just happened?” At the time, we weren’t sure whether the confusion was a side effect of fevered delirium or a genuine flaw in Blick’s storytelling.

Years later, The English—Blick’s latest project, starring Emily Blunt—offered a chance to find out. This time, at least, I was watching while fully healthy.

The result? Strikingly similar.

Set in the American West in 1890, The English follows Cornelia Locke (Blunt), an English noblewoman who travels to America seeking revenge for the death of her son. Along the way, she crosses paths with Eli Whipp (Chaske Spencer), a former Pawnee Scout for the U.S. Army—a man who simply wants to claim the land he’s been promised, even as everyone warns him that white settlers will never truly allow him to have it.

Two people with very different motivations are forced into an uneasy partnership across a harsh and unforgiving landscape, where violence, betrayal, and resentment are constant companions. Cornelia initially appears fragile, but quickly reveals herself to be ruthless, highly capable, and dangerous—just as one enemy observes: “Not quite the woman I expected.”

Emily Blunt is outstanding, projecting steel, grief, and resolve in equal measure. Chaske Spencer, far less famous, is a revelation—quiet, commanding, and emotionally grounded. Together, they form a compelling central duo. Surrounding them is a strong supporting cast that includes Toby Jones, Stephen Rea, and Rafe Spall, all set loose amid the vast, punishing beauty of the frontier.

Beneath its revenge-story surface, The English carries Hugo Blick’s familiar thematic concerns: the consequences of colonialism, cultural displacement, and the brutal marginalization of Indigenous people. White characters argue endlessly over who qualifies as a “real American,” while men like Eli are treated as tools, problems to be corrected, or targets to be eliminated.

The problem is that the story is told with unnecessary complexity.

Despite its gorgeous cinematography, painterly compositions, and several memorable supporting characters, The English frequently loses itself in a maze of motivations, backstories, and abrupt narrative jumps. Once Rafe Spall’s David Melmont enters the picture—with his thick, mumbled accent and tangled history with Cornelia—the plot becomes especially difficult to decipher. Key revelations are buried beneath layers of obfuscation.

Blick seems to have too many ideas and too little space to let them breathe. The result is a series that is visually stunning, emotionally ambitious, and often gripping—yet just as often frustrating, leaving viewers unsure not only of what is happening, but why.

And then, as is so often the case with Hugo Blick, the ending redeems much of what came before.

The epilogue is tender, elegant, and quietly devastating, revealing why Blick was so intent on applying a distinctly British perspective to a quintessentially American genre. It doesn’t erase the confusion that precedes it, but it softens the experience enough to make forgiveness possible.

Hugo Blick remains a fascinating filmmaker. One can only hope that, someday, he’ll tell a story that doesn’t require a full-blown conspiracy board to fully understand.