The Guinness family name conjures images of creamy pints, Irish heritage, and a brewing empire that’s lasted centuries. But in recent weeks, the Netflix drama House of Guinness has thrust the dynasty into the global spotlight—not just for its business legacy, but for a swirl of rumors, scandals, and a so-called family “curse.” As viewers binge the show’s first season, debates are raging both on and off the screen: How true is Netflix’s portrayal? Is the Guinness clan really haunted by misfortune, or is it all just a myth?
Created by Peaky Blinders mastermind Steven Knight, House of Guinness follows the children of the late Benjamin Guinness as they grapple with their inheritance and the future of the brewery. The series, which premiered on Netflix in late September 2025, features a cast led by Anthony Boyle (Arthur), Emily Fairn (Anne), Fionn O’Shea (Benjamin Lee Guinness II), and Louis Partridge as the enigmatic Edward Guinness. Partridge’s Edward, modeled after the real-life brewery magnate, is depicted as a fiercely creative leader—one who isn’t afraid to shake things up. “I like to work,” he declares in the show’s opening episode, setting the tone for his ambitious rebranding efforts, including the introduction of the now-iconic Irish harp logo.
But how much of this drama is rooted in fact? According to TIME and the Daily Mail, the real Edward Guinness was born in 1847, homeschooled before heading to Trinity College Dublin, and ascended to managing director of the brewery in 1868 after his father’s death. By 29, he had bought out his brother Arthur’s share for a staggering £600,000, and in 1886, he floated two-thirds of the company on the London Stock Exchange for £6 million—a move that made him, briefly, the richest man in Ireland. Edward retired a multi-millionaire at just 40, but remained chairman of the company for life, commissioning the Guinness Storehouse that still draws tourists to Dublin today.
Edward was more than just a shrewd businessman. He was a meticulous record-keeper—described in Joe Joyce’s 2009 biography as a “stickler for detail, to the point of obsession”—and a generous philanthropist. He donated nearly £1 million to housing projects, founding the Guinness Trust in 1890 (later the Iveagh Trust in 1903), which continues to provide over 10 percent of Dublin’s social housing. His charitable work extended to medicine and education: he gave £250,000 to the Lister Institute in 1898, co-funded London’s Radium Institute in 1908, and sponsored physics and botany buildings at Trinity College. Elevated to the House of Lords in 1891 and later titled the 1st Earl of Iveagh, Edward died in London in 1927 at age 79.
The Netflix series, while rooted in these real events and characters, takes its fair share of creative liberties. The show amplifies the rivalry between Edward and Arthur, introduces fictional figures like the tough Sean Rafferty (James Norton), and invents romantic subplots—such as Edward’s on-screen relationship with Fenian organizer Ellen Cochrane—that never existed in the historical record. As TIME notes, “Knight makes a few choices with them for the sake of drama.”
Yet, it’s not just the dramatization that’s stirred the pot. The show has triggered backlash in Ireland for what some critics call “clichéd” portrayals of Irish history and “jarring” attempts by British actors at Irish accents. Writers in the Irish Star complained that Norton’s accent as Sean Rafferty sounded more like “Darby O’Gill” than 19th-century Dublin, while Ed Power, reviewing for The Times, lamented the “wildly unfaithful retelling” and the sameness of many Irish characters. The show’s modern soundtrack, featuring Irish punk band Fontaines D.C. and controversial rappers Kneecap, only added fuel to the fire.
Even the Guinness family itself has weighed in. Edward “Ned” Guinness, the 4th Earl of Iveagh and the current head of the dynasty, spoke out in an interview with The Telegraph in early October 2025, dismissing the notion of a family curse as “dreamt up.” At 56, Ned manages the Elveden Estate in Suffolk and serves as a trustee for the Iveagh Trust. He’s worth £856 million, according to the 2025 Sunday Times Rich List, but laughs off the idea of being haunted by misfortune. “You could say we’re the luckiest family alive. I feel blessed by being a Guinness, not cursed,” he insisted. “I’m not involved in the business. I carry the passport, and they carry the beer onwards.”
Still, the legend of the Guinness curse persists, fueled by a long history of tragedy and scandal. The original founder, Arthur Guinness, famously signed a 9,000-year lease for the brewery in 1759—a sign, perhaps, of his supreme confidence. But his personal life was marked by heartbreak: he fathered 21 children, 10 of whom died before him, a tragedy that, while not uncommon for the era, set the tone for later family misfortunes. Over the centuries, the Guinnesses have endured everything from scandalous marriages—Diana Mitford’s affair and eventual marriage to Oswald Mosley, leader of the British Union of Fascists, shocked society in the 1930s—to untimely deaths, such as Lord Moyne’s assassination in Cairo in 1944, Lady Henrietta Guinness’s suicide in 1978, and Tara Browne’s fatal car crash at just 21 in 1966.
For some descendants, the weight of the Guinness name is a double-edged sword. Daphne Guinness, granddaughter of Diana Mitford and herself a fashion designer and muse to Karl Lagerfeld, described her surname as both a “paradox” and a “blessing and a curse.” In an interview with Grazia, she explained: “It made people assume things that weren’t necessarily true. It was rather annoying to have to break away from that name and to become someone in your own right. I’m not complaining, because everyone has to come from somewhere. People like Bowie or McQueen, they wouldn’t have worked with me if I wasn’t good at what I did. It can open a door, but then it’s what you do after you open that door.”
The Netflix series has also drawn criticism from within the family. Molly Guinness, a writer and direct descendant, wrote in The Times that she felt “righteous fury” watching the show’s depiction of her ancestors. She objected to the portrayal of her great-great-grandfather Edward and his brother Arthur as “knaves and fools,” and insisted that Sir Benjamin was, in reality, a “loving father.” Molly also accused the show of inventing Arthur’s “gay exploits” and of making the love stories of Anne and Edward “inappropriate.”
Despite the controversy, House of Guinness has succeeded in reigniting interest in the real family behind the world’s most famous stout. As the first season streams on Netflix, viewers are left to ponder: Is the Guinness saga one of triumph, tragedy, or both? For now, the family’s legacy—like its signature brew—remains rich, complex, and impossible to ignore.
