When unchecked influence and power are weaponized to silence victims and build an untouchable empire. On Netflix, Martin Clunes captures the suffocating dread of a man exploiting his public image. The chilling, calculating smile he gives behind closed doors right after this frame proves why Power: The Downfall of Huw Edwards (2026) is one of the most unsettling dramas of the year.

There are performances that linger. Then there are performances that crawl under the skin and refuse to leave. Martin Clunes delivers the latter in Power: The Downfall of Huw Edwards (2026), a taut, unflinching drama that peels back the carefully constructed façade of one of Britain’s most trusted television faces and reveals something far darker underneath.

For years, Huw Edwards was the calm, authoritative voice that guided the nation through momentous events. He was the man who announced the death of the Queen. He was the steady presence millions trusted in times of crisis. That public image was his greatest shield. Power: The Downfall of Huw Edwards (2026) shows, with clinical precision, how that same image became a weapon.

Clunes does not simply play Edwards. He inhabits the quiet arrogance of a man who believed his position placed him beyond scrutiny. The performance is restrained, almost polite on the surface. Then the camera catches him alone. The smile that appears in those private moments is not warm. It is measured, knowing, and deeply unsettling. It is the smile of someone who understands exactly how power works and has spent years learning how to use it without leaving fingerprints.

The drama centres on the relationship that ultimately helped bring Edwards down. A young man, given the name Ryan in the film, finds himself drawn into a secretive online connection with the famous newsreader. What begins with attention and validation quickly becomes transactional. Money changes hands. Demands increase. The imbalance of power is absolute. Edwards holds the status, the resources, and the public reputation. The young man holds almost nothing.

Clunes plays these exchanges with a chilling economy. There is no theatrical villainy. Instead there is the soft pressure of someone who knows the other person cannot easily walk away. The script, drawn from extensive interviews with the young man and his family as well as court records and journalistic investigations, refuses to soften the reality of that dynamic. It shows how isolation, secrecy, and financial dependence can be cultivated over time until the victim feels trapped inside a relationship that was never equal.

The film is equally unsparing about the institutional failures that allowed the situation to continue. Complaints were raised. Concerns were voiced. Yet the machinery of a powerful organisation moved slowly, if at all. The drama does not lecture. It simply shows the gap between the public face of responsibility and the private reality of inaction. That gap becomes one of the most disturbing elements of the story.

Then comes the second, even more damning layer. While maintaining the carefully controlled relationship with the young man, Edwards was also engaged in separate online contact that led to him receiving indecent images of children. The court later heard that he had accessed material including the most serious category of images. He pleaded guilty. He received a suspended sentence and was placed on the sex offenders’ register. The man who once spoke to the nation with moral authority was revealed to have operated in a world of profound moral collapse.

Power: The Downfall of Huw Edwards (2026) does not dwell on graphic detail. It does not need to. The horror lies in the contrast. The same man who appeared on screen as the embodiment of trust was, behind closed doors, navigating a private existence built on secrecy, payment, and exploitation. Clunes makes that contrast feel almost physical. Viewers watch him move between the polished public performance and the private calculations, and the effect is nauseating.

What elevates the film beyond simple true-crime reenactment is its focus on the experience of the young man at the centre of the initial scandal. The drama gives space to the confusion, the gradual erosion of boundaries, the moments of hope mixed with growing unease, and the eventual decision by his family to force the truth into the open. It is not a story of instantaneous villainy and victimhood. It is a story of process — how power can be used slowly, methodically, and with devastating effect.

Critics have noted that Clunes was not the most obvious casting choice. The actor best known for lighter roles and the long-running Doc Martin series brings an unexpected quality to the part. There is something ordinary about him that makes the darkness more disturbing. He does not look like a monster. He looks like a man who has spent a lifetime being treated as special and has internalised that specialness as entitlement. That ordinariness is precisely what makes the performance so effective.

The film arrives at a moment when questions about institutional power, online grooming, and the protection of young people remain painfully relevant. It does not offer easy answers. It does not claim to close the book on a still-contested set of events. What it does is refuse to look away. It insists that the public image and the private reality must be held up against each other, even when the comparison is uncomfortable.

Edwards has disputed aspects of the drama’s portrayal, arguing that it presents a one-sided narrative. The producers have maintained that the film was based on extensive primary research, including interviews with the young man and his family, text exchanges, and court reporting, and that allegations were put to Edwards through his solicitors before transmission. The debate itself has become part of the story’s ongoing afterlife.

What remains after the final frame is the memory of that smile. Clunes delivers it with devastating control. It is the smile of a man who believes he has mastered the game of influence, reputation, and silence. It is the smile that, in the end, could not protect him from the consequences of his own choices.

Power: The Downfall of Huw Edwards (2026) is not comfortable viewing. It is not meant to be. It is a study in how public trust can be converted into private power, and how that power, once unchecked, can leave lasting damage in its wake. Martin Clunes has given one of the most quietly terrifying performances of recent years. The film does not shout. It does not need to. The dread settles in slowly, and it stays.

Streaming now.