‘Limpia’ San Sebastian Review: A Subtle Tale of Power and Dependence (Netflix)

The figure of the live-in maid or nanny is a recurring theme in Chilean cinema. There’s even a well-known film titled The Maid, directed by Sebastián Silva, and that type of character appears time and again in stories that expose the stark social divisions between domestic workers and the families who employ them. Estela (María Paz Grandjean) is one of those characters—a live-in maid who dedicates almost her entire life to the family that hires her, with little time (and sometimes no permission at all) to care for her own.

The couple she works for live in a gated community, embodying that performative class guilt that makes them appear politically correct while in practice being far from it. Each is wrapped up in their own affairs, taking it for granted that Estela will handle everything else—especially their six-year-old daughter Julia (Rosa Puga Vittini, a revelation), who is intense, willful, and rarely obeys. At times Estela feels more like her accomplice than her caretaker: when the girl refuses to take swimming lessons, Estela simply looks the other way.

Under the direction of Dominga Sotomayor (Thursday Till Sunday), the film unfolds as a series of layered situations. For much of its running time there isn’t a clear dramatic arc pulling the story forward. Instead, Sotomayor paints vignettes of everyday class disdain. Estela needs to visit her sick mother, but her employers “generously” ask her to go later. A rare day off is canceled when the «boss», who is a doctor, faces a medical emergency. Again and again, her time is swallowed by the needs of others.

Estela’s deepest connections are with the little girl and with a young man who runs a nearby shop, with whom she begins a tentative romance. He owns a dog that soon becomes their companion, joining the pair in long days when the parents are absent and Estela is left in charge of everything. Sotomayor’s elegant, languid style—her signature, even in this new setting—eventually gives way to sharper turns in a climactic moment. These shifts may feel predictable within the atmosphere of persistent, barely concealed cruelty the film establishes, but they still land with a jolt.

The choices made in the final act are likely to spark debate. One of them feels logical and consistent with the story; another may strike some as going too far. Based on Alia Trabucco’s acclaimed novel, Limpia is undoubtedly shaped by its source material. Yet within Sotomayor’s understated, measured tone, the intensity of those final developments comes across as radical, even extreme.

Up until then, Limpia is far more subtle, clever, and refined in showing how class contempt surfaces. Rather than outright abuse or aggression, the film depicts a quieter form of disregard. The relationship between Estela and the girl is especially compelling: while there is genuine intimacy, Sotomayor avoids the romanticized trope of unconditional love between nanny and child. On the contrary, the bond is laced with small but striking moments of cruelty—not overt, but undeniable.

Produced by Fabula (the Larraín brothers’ company) and set to stream on Netflix in October, Limpia maintains a tone that feels unusual for a platform release: gentle, observant, built on glances, silences, discomfort, and simmering unease. Only when “the lid blows off” does it resemble the kind of film designed to provoke stronger reactions. For better or worse, it’s at that moment the film takes a harder stance, leaving the audience to draw their own conclusions.