The wait is over, kindred spirits! After years of fervent petitions, celebrity endorsements, and a fandom that refused to let go, Netflix and CBC have officially greenlit “Anne with an E” Season 4. Set to premiere in spring 2026, this long-awaited continuation promises to plunge us back into the vibrant, heartache-filled world of Avonlea, with Amybeth McNulty’s irrepressible Anne Shirley-Cuthbert facing her most transformative trials yet. But with whispers of darker themes, returning fan-favorites, and a production shrouded in secrecy, is this revival a triumphant return—or a risky reinvention that could shatter the spell?
In the crisp autumn of 2019, when the leaves of Prince Edward Island turned as fiery as Anne Shirley’s temper, the world bid a tearful farewell to one of television’s most enchanting heroines. “Anne with an E,” the CBC-Netflix co-production that reimagined L.M. Montgomery’s timeless “Anne of Green Gables,” wrapped its third season with a finale that felt like a gut-punch: Anne, now 16, stepping into womanhood amid whispers of college dreams, forbidden romances, and the suffocating shadows of societal expectations. The screen faded on Green Gables’ lantern-lit porch, Marilla’s stern gaze softening into pride, Matthew’s gentle spirit lingering like a half-remembered lullaby. Fans, already heartbroken by the abrupt cancellation announcement mere days after the Canadian broadcast, flooded social media with pleas. Petitions amassed over 1.5 million signatures. Billboards in Times Square and Toronto’s Yonge-Dundas Square screamed “Save Anne with an E!” Celebrities like Ryan Reynolds and Rami Malek lent their voices, tweeting fervent calls for renewal. Yet, the silence from Netflix was deafening. The show, with its lush cinematography, poignant social commentary, and Amybeth McNulty’s star-making performance, seemed destined for the scrapheap of prematurely axed gems.
Fast-forward to November 14, 2025—a date that will etch itself into literary lore like the day Anne first arrived at the Cuthbert farm. At Netflix’s annual Tudum global fan event, held in a sun-dappled Los Angeles theater packed with diehards clutching potted ferns and red braids, the unthinkable happened. Amidst trailers for “Stranger Things” spin-offs and “The Crown” finales, a familiar accordion melody swelled. The screen flickered to life: wind-swept PEI cliffs, Anne’s laughter echoing over crashing waves, a journal entry scrawled in her looping script: “The world is wider than ever, and I am ready for it—scars and all.” Then, the bombshell: “Anne with an E: Season 4. Coming Spring 2026. Only on Netflix.” The crowd erupted in sobs and screams, a collective exhale after six years of holding breath. Showrunner Moira Walley-Beckett, beaming beside McNulty and a cadre of returning cast, wiped tears as she declared, “Anne’s story isn’t over. It’s just beginning to bloom.”
The announcement wasn’t born in a vacuum. Behind the scenes, a perfect storm of fan fervor, corporate calculus, and creative persistence converged. Netflix, grappling with a 2025 subscriber dip amid economic headwinds and competition from Disney+ and Prime Video, has pivoted hard toward “comfort prestige”—shows that blend emotional depth with bingeable escapism. “Anne with an E,” with its 92% Rotten Tomatoes score and global appeal (topping charts in 190 countries upon Season 3’s release), fits the bill. CBC, ever the guardian of Canadian heritage, lobbied fiercely, securing government grants for PEI-based filming to boost tourism (the island’s “Anne economy” already pumps $100 million annually). Walley-Beckett, fresh off an Emmy nod for “Breaking Bad” alumni cred, pitched a revival that honors Montgomery’s sequels—”Anne of Avonlea” and “Anne of the Island”—while amplifying the original series’ bold takes on feminism, Indigenous rights, and mental health. “We left too much untold,” she told Variety post-announcement. “Anne’s journey to university, her heart’s first true fracture, the winds of change sweeping Avonlea—these are stories that demand to be voiced.”
At the epicenter stands Amybeth McNulty, the 24-year-old Irish-Canadian phenom whose portrayal catapulted her from Dublin theater obscurity to international darling. When the cancellation hit in 2019, McNulty was 18, gutted but gracious: “Anne taught me resilience,” she posted on Instagram, a photo of her in carrot-top wig, freckles painted fresh. Since then, she’s blossomed—starring in HBO’s “The Sympathizer,” earning a BAFTA nod for indie film “A Mouthful of Air,” and advocating for neurodiverse representation (drawing from Anne’s own “kindred spirit” ethos). Returning as a 22-year-old Anne (via clever aging makeup and time-jump narrative), McNulty promises a heroine “forged in fire.” In a Tudum exclusive clip, Anne bursts into Queen’s College, quill in hand, challenging a smug professor: “Imagination isn’t whimsy, sir—it’s the spark that ignites progress!” McNulty’s chemistry with returning co-stars—Dalila Bela’s Diana Barry, now a suffragette-in-training, and Lucas Jade Zumann’s Gilbert Blythe, whose medical ambitions clash with Anne’s literary fire—crackles anew. “Filming felt like coming home,” McNulty gushed to Entertainment Weekly. “But this Anne? She’s bolder, broken open. She’s us, stepping into the unknown.”
Season 4’s plot teases a tapestry of triumphs and tempests, weaving Montgomery’s later books with Walley-Beckett’s signature edge. The 10-episode arc catapults us to 189- wait, 1900s PEI, where Anne, fresh from high school triumph, navigates the hallowed halls of university. Expect intellectual awakenings: heated debates on women’s suffrage, clandestine meetings with suffragettes (guest-starring breakout “Euphoria” alum Storm Reid as a radical mentor), and Anne’s first foray into journalism, penning fiery op-eds that ruffle Avonlea’s conservative feathers. Romance simmers—Gilbert’s courtship evolves from boyish crushes to profound partnership, tested by long-distance pangs and a rival suitor (rumored heartthrob Jacob Anderson of “Game of Thrones” fame). But shadows loom: Marilla’s (Geraldine James) health falters, echoing Montgomery’s own losses; Matthew’s (R.H. Thomson) spirit haunts through flashbacks, a poignant nod to actor Thomson’s real-life advocacy for mental health. Indigenous storylines deepen, with Ka’kwet (Bah enrollees) arcs exploring residential school horrors—timely, unflinching, earning praise from Mi’kmaq elders consulted for authenticity.
Diversity pulses stronger: New characters include a queer-coded poet (non-binary actor Blue Chapman) who bonds with Anne over “forbidden verses,” and a Black medical student (Ayo Edebiri in talks) challenging Gilbert’s ambitions. “We’re not shying from the era’s ugliness,” Walley-Beckett insists. “Anne’s empathy was always her superpower—we’re amplifying voices Montgomery hinted at but couldn’t fully voice.” Visually, it’s a feast: Cinematographer Cathal Waddell returns, capturing PEI’s amber sunsets and fog-shrouded bays with 8K intimacy. Costumes by Debra Hanson evolve Anne’s wardrobe from calico to collegiate chic—puffed sleeves giving way to tailored blazers, symbolizing her metamorphosis. The score, by Amin Bhatia and Jonathan Goldsmith, swells with Celtic fiddles and modernist strings, underscoring themes of growth amid grief.
Production buzz is electric. Filming kicked off in secret this July, shuttling between Cavendish’s Anne House Museum (now a UNESCO hopeful) and Toronto soundstages for interior universality. Budget? A reported $60 million CAD, up 20% from Season 3, funding VFX for dream sequences where Anne communes with “Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald” visions. Cast reunions have been cathartic: James’ Marilla shares tearful table reads with Thomson’s Matthew holograms (AI-assisted, ethically sourced). Bela’s Diana, now 22, directs an episode on female solidarity, channeling her off-screen activism. Zumann, post-“Anne” glow-up in “Euphoria” cameos, teases Gilbert’s “tender heroism.” Guest stars dazzle: Catherine O’Hara as a eccentric literature prof, Awkwafina voicing a sassy raven familiar in Anne’s fever dreams.
Yet, revival risks abound. Purists decry the original’s “modernization”—expanded race/gender arcs—as straying from Montgomery’s pastoral idyll. “Anne was escapism,” grumbled a Globe and Mail op-ed. “This feels like agenda-pushing.” Cancellation scars linger: 2019’s axe, blamed on Netflix’s algorithm favoring “binge hooks” over slow-burns, left arcs unresolved—Anne’s adoption, Cole’s fate. Fans fear a “cash-grab” finale, but metrics say otherwise: Season 3’s 25 million hours viewed in Week 1, plus a 2024 TikTok resurgence (braid tutorials, “kindred spirit” challenges), prove enduring hunger. Netflix data: 40% of Gen Z viewers discovered it via social, craving its anti-bullying anthems.
Walley-Beckett counters: “Anne’s relevance explodes in 2025—women’s rights regressions, climate grief mirroring her ‘scope for imagination.’ This isn’t nostalgia; it’s necessity.” McNulty echoes: “Season 4 is Anne claiming her voice in a world that silences it. If that doesn’t hook you, what will?”
As spring 2026 beckons—exact date TBA, likely March 19 to honor premiere—hype builds. Tudum dropped a teaser: Anne, red hair whipping in gales, declaring, “Depth of soul is my inheritance!” Fan events proliferate: PEI’s “Kindred Spirits Festival” sells out, virtual watch-alongs trend. Merch explodes—”Carrots and Chaos” tees, Yennefer-inspired journals (wait, wrong show? No, Avonlea alchemists!).
In a fractured TV landscape, “Anne with an E” Season 4 isn’t revival—it’s resurrection. A testament to stories that refuse to end, to heroines who teach us: Amid sorrow’s sting, imagination endures. Grab your pinafore, kindred spirits. Avonlea awaits—wider, wilder, wonderfully alive.
