Lisa McGee’s newest Netflix series tackles something Hollywood gets wrong constantly: blending genres without losing identity.
“How to Get to Heaven from Belfast” throws comedy, drama, mystery, and feminist commentary into one pot—and somehow, it works.
The show follows Saoirse, a burnt-out TV writer played by Roisin Gallagher, who returns to Belfast with two childhood friends to mourn a classmate’s death—only to stumble into a dangerous mystery tied to their past.
It’s messy, meta, and deeply Irish—but beneath the chaos lies sharp commentary about the stories women tell themselves and the lives they didn’t live.
Why Genre-Blending Usually Fails (And Why This Show Doesn’t)
Most genre mashups collapse under their own weight. They try to be everything and end up being nothing memorable.
McGee’s series avoids that trap by grounding its wild premise in authentic characters and razor-sharp writing. The mystery twists through biblical storms, Dolly Parton impersonators, suffragist hit squads, and burning houses—but never loses sight of its emotional core.
The key difference? McGee doesn’t sacrifice quality in one area to prop up another. Every element—the comedy, the drama, the mystery—earns its place.
The Meta Layer That Actually Matters
Centering a murder-mystery series around a murder-mystery TV writer could’ve been insufferable. Instead, McGee uses the meta framework to examine something deeper: how women construct narratives about their own lives.
Saoirse’s fictional career mirrors McGee’s real one—both face pressure to dilute their vision for broader appeal. The opening scene captures this perfectly: Saoirse’s leading actress suggests abandoning crime plots for “feminist” character studies about sex lives and self-discovery.
You entertain a lot of people. So do crimes!
That tension—between meaningful storytelling and industry expectations—runs through every episode. But McGee’s genius is delivering exactly what that vapid actress requested, just not in the sanitized way she imagined.
The series does explore personal costs, relationships, and feminist themes. It’s just wrapped in murder, mayhem, and genuinely earned character development.
Three Women, One Complicated Friendship
Saoirse reunites with childhood friends Robyn (Sinéad Keenan) and Dara (Caoilfhionn Dunne) for what should be a quick funeral visit. Instead, they’re pulled into investigating secrets from their school days.
The trio’s dynamic drives everything forward. Their chemistry feels lived-in—full of inside jokes, old resentments, and the kind of shorthand only decades-long friendships create.
Keenan and Dunne particularly shine, balancing comedic timing with genuine emotional vulnerability. When “Derry Girls” alumna Saoirse-Monica Jackson arrives later in the season, she brings magnetic energy that shifts the entire ensemble.
Irish History Meets Personal Reckoning
McGee weaves Irish historical threads throughout without making the show feel like homework. References to suffragist movements and regional tensions add texture rather than weight.
The mystery itself branches in unexpected directions—sometimes dizzyingly so. You might feel lost when McGee introduces another subplot or historical tangent.
But that slight disorientation serves the larger point. Life doesn’t follow neat narrative arcs. Women’s stories especially get interrupted, redirected, and rewritten constantly.
The Monologue That Defines Everything
Early on, Dara delivers a line that initially seems throwaway:
We should be able to mourn the life we didn’t have without feeling guilty for the life we do have.
That sentiment echoes through every episode. All three women carry versions of unlived lives—career paths abandoned, relationships that fizzled, choices they can’t unmake.
The murder mystery becomes a vehicle for confronting those alternate histories. Not with regret exactly, but with honest acknowledgment that you can be grateful for your present while grieving what never was.
Where Comedy and Darkness Collide
McGee never lets the tone settle. One moment delivers sharp physical comedy—the next pivots to genuine danger or emotional rawness.
A motel clerk named Norman (yes, that reference) provides laughs while the biblical storm outside mirrors internal turmoil. Creepy family members appear both absurd and threatening.
- Quality jokes that land without undercutting dramatic moments
- Physical comedy rooted in character rather than slapstick
- Tonal shifts that feel intentional, not jarring
This constant oscillation could derail a lesser show. Here, it creates rhythm—mimicking how real grief and stress operate.
The Algorithm-Pleasing Show That Transcends Its Formula
Make no mistake: “How to Get to Heaven from Belfast” fits neatly into Netflix’s preference for genre-blending, binge-worthy content with built-in audiences (thanks to McGee’s “Derry Girls” cachet).
But McGee uses that commercial framework to smuggle in something substantive. The show acknowledges its own artifice—the silly coincidences, the local mechanic who’s also the local cop—while using those meta moments to question all constructed narratives.
Including the ones women build about themselves.
The result is entertainment that works immediately (sharp laughs, compelling mystery) while burrowing deeper over time. Jokes that seemed simple reveal layers. Character moments that felt minor accumulate significance.
What Makes This Genre Blend Actually Work
Most multi-genre shows fail because they’re hedging bets—trying to capture multiple demographics without committing to excellence in any single area.
McGee succeeds because she commits fully to everything. The comedy doesn’t excuse weak mystery plotting. The drama doesn’t justify unfunny jokes. Each element meets professional standards independently while enhancing the others.
That’s exceptionally rare. It’s also why “How to Get to Heaven from Belfast” earns its genre-blending ambitions where countless other shows simply pile ingredients into a bowl and hope for the best.
The Verdict on McGee’s Latest
Eight episodes drop simultaneously on Netflix starting February 12. The mystery winds through enough twists that you might occasionally lose your bearings.
But that disorientation serves McGee’s vision—a story about women navigating overlapping identities, unresolved pasts, and the gap between who they became and who they imagined becoming.
Not every show should attempt this much. Most that try crumble under the weight of their own ambition.
“How to Get to Heaven from Belfast” pulls it off by refusing to sacrifice quality for quantity—and proves genre-blending can work when crafted by someone who actually knows what they’re doing.