At 37, Sophie Rundle found herself carrying a weight that extended far beyond performance. As production moved forward on the cinematic conclusion of Peaky Blinders, there was an undeniable absence on set—the space once occupied by Helen McCrory, whose portrayal of Polly Gray had long been the emotional and strategic backbone of the Shelby family.
McCrory’s passing in 2021 left more than a narrative gap. It left a void in presence, in authority, in spirit. For Rundle, who plays Ada Thorne, that absence became something she could feel physically. She has spoken about glancing toward an empty chair during rehearsals, instinctively expecting McCrory to be there—watching, guiding, anchoring the scene with her quiet intensity.
But what remained, powerfully intact, was McCrory’s influence.
Years earlier, McCrory had offered Rundle a piece of advice—five words that would return with overwhelming force at exactly the right moment: “Family is your only strength.”
At the time, it may have felt like a simple observation, something rooted in the themes of the show itself. But in 2026, as Ada steps into a position of leadership within the Shelby Company, those words take on a far deeper meaning. They are no longer just guidance for a character—they are a framework for performance.
There is a pivotal scene in which Ada fully assumes the role of matriarch, commanding the room with a quiet authority that echoes Polly’s legacy. It is in that moment that Rundle felt her composure falter. The weight of McCrory’s absence collided with the responsibility of carrying her legacy forward. The line between actor and character blurred.
Rather than resist that emotion, Rundle allowed it to exist within the scene. The vulnerability, the gravity, the sense of inheritance—it all became part of Ada’s transformation. What could have been played as a calculated shift in power instead unfolded as something more organic: a woman stepping into strength not by replacing what came before, but by honoring it.
McCrory’s influence is woven into that transition. Polly Gray was never just a figure of authority; she was the emotional compass of the family, the one who understood that power without connection is ultimately hollow. By internalizing that philosophy, Rundle was able to ground Ada’s evolution in something authentic.
The result is a performance that does not attempt to replicate McCrory, but to reflect her impact. Ada does not become Polly—she becomes herself, shaped by the lessons Polly left behind.
This dynamic speaks to a broader truth about legacy in storytelling. When a foundational presence is lost, the instinct can be to fill the void as quickly as possible. But in this case, the absence is allowed to breathe. It informs the narrative rather than being erased from it.
For Rundle, those five words did more than guide a scene. They dismantled any emotional distance she might have maintained as an actor. They forced her to engage with the material on a deeply personal level, drawing from memory, respect, and a genuine sense of loss.
“I felt Polly’s spirit in the room,” she has said—a sentiment that captures the essence of what makes this final chapter so resonant.
Helen McCrory may no longer be physically present, but her influence remains the bedrock of the story. And through Sophie Rundle’s performance, that legacy is not only preserved—it is carried forward with quiet, undeniable strength.