‘The Housemaid’ Review: A ’90s Thriller Reheated for the Present

A throwback to the intense domestic thrillers of the 1990s with a distinctly 21st-century twist, The Housemaid sets out to be a violent, nerve-fraying suspense story that toys with issues of class and gender—and at times, it succeeds. Still, its largely predictable framework (even with its supposedly shocking twists), overextended running time, and several screenplay limitations ultimately undermine its ambitions. The result is an unsettling but ultimately disposable Paul Feig thriller: passable entertainment in the familiar category of movies you forget almost as soon as the credits roll.

Adapted from Freida McFadden’s bestselling 2022 novel—unrelated to the Korean classic that shares its title—the film is also burdened by the expectations of contemporary cinema. From the outset, viewers are primed to assume that things are not quite what they seem, not so much because of narrative cleverness but because of an awareness of what a film like this is supposed to argue in politically acceptable terms. Within the first ten minutes, it becomes clear that very little of what The Housemaid presents can be taken at face value. All the clues are laid out in plain sight.

Films such as The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, Sleeping with the Enemy, Single White Female, and Misery built their tension around interpersonal relationships that slowly—and then explosively—cross the line into violence. In this updated take on that once-ubiquitous genre, Sydney Sweeney plays Millie, a young woman who arrives by car at a sprawling mansion outside New York, hoping to land a live-in housekeeping job. She is greeted by Nina (Amanda Seyfried), an elegant, refined, and faintly unsettling woman who gives her a tour of the pristine home designed by her husband, Andrew (Brandon Sklenar), before promising to call if she gets the job.

It soon becomes clear that Millie harbors no real expectations of being hired: she has a recent prison record that can be uncovered with even the most cursory background check. She is, in fact, essentially homeless, living out of her car and completely broke. Against all odds, Nina does call, and Millie moves into the house—sleeping in a small, claustrophobic room upstairs, reached via a stately, Hitchcock-esque staircase. The couple also has an icy eight-year-old daughter.

From the beginning, it is obvious that this household is far from perfect. Nina is a bundle of barely contained tension, a woman perpetually on the brink of a breakdown who turns the house into a battlefield: she lashes out at Millie, humiliates her, accuses her of things she later denies having said. But Millie, who desperately needs the job—a scene with her parole officer makes it clear she cannot afford to quit—endures the abuse, as well as the child’s hostile behavior. The only seemingly sympathetic figure is Andrew, who attempts to calm his wife and protect Millie, even as it becomes increasingly evident that his interest in her goes beyond simple kindness. Nina notices this, too.

This carefully orchestrated chaos escalates in a neat but foreseeable manner until the narrative folds in on itself, reframing events from a different perspective and suggesting that what we have seen so far is only part of the story. A series of flashbacks briefly disrupts the film’s momentum, but Feig eventually recaptures the blunt mechanics of the thriller, steering the story toward increasingly violent and brutal territory.

Although Sweeney is the nominal lead, the film’s most showy performance belongs to Seyfried, who portrays a woman whose near-psychotic intensity reveals more layers than initially apparent. Millie, too, has her secrets, though the film signals early on that her past is far from clean. As for Sklenar—seen recently in 1923 and Drop—his Andrew presents himself as attentive, polite, and considerate, but anyone who has watched more than a couple of thrillers knows that such traits are rarely the full story. This suspicion is only reinforced by the appearance of his cold, domineering mother, played by Elizabeth Perkins.

Despite being effective and moderately entertaining—if 15 to 20 minutes too long, like a competently structured bestseller stretched to feature length—The Housemaid ultimately loses points for reasons that extend beyond the film itself. When cinema prioritizes political correctness over risk-taking and provocation, predictability becomes almost unavoidable. As a result, the film’s twists do not so much shock as confirm what viewers already suspect from the opening moments.