‘All Her Fault’ Review: When a Playdate Turns Into a Nightmare
When a mother arrives to pick up her young son from a playdate and discovers he was never there, his disappearance triggers a sprawling investigation that exposes secrets, lies and shifting loyalties.
A strong cast and an efficient narrative—at least at first—make it seem like All Her Fault might be something other than the usual child-abduction crime series. And while there is an intriguing line of inquiry running through it, centered on the brutal pressure placed on mothers to be perfect at everything, the series—based on Andrea Mara’s 2021 novel—ultimately turns out to be not all that different from any other overstuffed police thriller of this kind. Over the course of its eight episodes, what initially looks like an unsettling look at social and psychological pressures between mothers and fathers, and between bosses and employees, gradually morphs into an almost impressive chain of increasingly implausible events.
Created by Megan Gallagher and shot mostly in Australia (at times it’s very obvious this is not Chicago), All Her Fault wastes no time getting to the point. The opening scene shows Marissa Irvine (Sarah Snook, from Succession) arriving to pick up her five-year-old son Milo from the house where he is supposedly playing with a school friend. Instead, she’s greeted by Esther (Linda Cropper), a woman who has no idea what Marissa is talking about. What initially seems like a simple mix-up quickly turns into a nightmare: Milo is gone, apparently abducted. He was meant to be at the home of Jenny (Dakota Fanning), a fellow school mom Marissa barely knows, and all signs point to Jenny’s nanny, Carrie (Sophia Lillis, from It), who has also vanished.
From that starting point, All Her Fault fans out in every possible direction. Carrie may be the obvious suspect, but since her motives are unknown, the list of potential accomplices grows quickly. Among them: Marissa’s husband Peter (Jake Lacy), introduced early on as a man clearly hiding things; his two siblings—a sister with a history of alcoholism (Abby Elliott, Sugar on The Bear) and a brother with motor impairments (Daniel Monks); Marissa’s business partner (Jay Ellis, from Insecure); the couple’s own nanny (Kartiah Vergara), who knew Carrie; and, of course, Jenny herself, her husband Richie (Thomas Cocquerel), and even the woman from the opening scene. One important clarification: all of this unfolds in a world of serious money—wealthy professionals casually dealing in millions of dollars.
In its best early episodes, the series is more interested in the emotional and domestic fallout of the kidnapping than in the procedural mechanics, which only really come into focus with the arrival of Detective Alcaras (Michael Peña), a classic TV bloodhound who always seems to know more than everyone else. Gallagher and her directors place particular emphasis on the pressure placed on mothers, expected to juggle demanding careers and childcare, while their husbands—at least the two notably unimpressive ones on display here, Peter and Richie—largely opt out of that part of family life. Worse, they still find ways to get angry when things go wrong. Gradually, though, these themes are swallowed up by the crime plot, and everything starts bleeding into everything else.
For Shiv—sorry, Marissa—the situation leaves her completely defenseless. Desperate for answers, she searches for Milo and tries to understand why her son was taken, especially since no ransom demand ever arrives. Very slowly—very slowly—pulling on that thread begins to yield some answers. The series constantly shifts points of view among its large ensemble while also dipping into the past, encouraging the audience to believe that one of the many doors it opens might contain the key to the mystery. There are as many doors as there are characters, so just about anything could have happened. Or could still be happening.
By around episode four, the plot doesn’t just get tangled—it veers decisively into soap-opera territory, abandoning the more unsettling thematic concerns of the early chapters. In any case, by focusing exclusively on extremely wealthy families, All Her Fault never truly pretends to be about the struggles of most mothers (these women have nannies, housekeepers, and plenty of money). It’s about a very specific social stratum, the kind that populates bestselling thrillers like the novel it’s based on, and series such as Big Little Lies, whose success is, in more than one way, responsible for this seemingly endless wave of imitators.
What allows All Her Fault to partially mask its more obvious flaws is its cast. Snook is excellent in a role that fits her perfectly and gives her plenty of room to show her range. Fanning’s part is more limited—the character clearly grew in importance during development, likely because of the actress’s presence, one of many departures from the novel—but her screen presence is undeniable. The same goes for Lacy, Lillis, Peña, Ellis, and Elliott: all familiar faces who manage to lend weight and texture to characters that, on the page, are often thinly sketched. Strip away that glossy coat of prestige, however, and what remains is a series far more conventional—and far more mediocre—than it initially appears, or would like to be.
