Violently Sexy ‘THE HOUSEMAID’ Cleans House

A pulpy erotic thriller that channels the airport-read energy of Gone Girl with a dash of The Stepford Wives’ satirical zip, The Housemaid is an effortlessly entertaining throwback to a mostly bygone era of glossy, high-concept potboilers. Led by the competent, sudsy trio of Sydney Sweeney, Amanda Seyfried, and Brandon Sklenar, Paul Feig’s adaptation of Freida McFadden’s 2022 bestseller does carry some of the expected baggage: over-reliance on clunky overdubbed narration, and a few character choices that feel more convenient than coherent. But the film is so self-aware, so happily leaning into its own soapy excess, that the silliness becomes part of the charm.

Millie (Sweeney) desperately needs a job. Ultra-wealthy housewife Nina (Seyfried) desperately needs a housemaid. The gig sounds ideal: clean a sprawling estate, prep a few meals, and help wrangle their seven-year-old daughter. What Nina doesn’t know (or so it seems) is that Millie is living out of her car and on parole after serving ten years for murder. Her, ahem, zhuzhed-up résumé omits that little detail, but Nina, doting and almost suspiciously affectionate, hires her anyway, swept up in Millie’s chipper desperation. Millie thinks she’s pulled off the con of the century…until day two. Then Nina’s demeanor shifts violently.

Her employer becomes cold, manipulative, and prone to sudden rages, blaming Millie for messes she didn’t cause and unleashing bizarre verbal tirades. In front of others, she intentionally embarrasses Millie, making snide comments about the incompetence of “the help” in an upstairs/downstairs satire that never pulls its punches. Quitting would be the obvious choice, but Millie’s strict parole terms mean leaving could land her back behind bars, a fact Nina seems suspiciously aware of this, wielding that advantage to further whatever sick games she’s playing at. As the gaslighting intensifies, Millie turns to Nina’s husband Andrew (Sklenar), a seemingly sympathetic ear increasingly disturbed by his wife’s cruel, unraveling behavior. Of course, nothing is as it seems, and part of the pleasure of Feig’s lurid little puzzle is watching the layers peel back, one increasingly absurd twist at a time.

Sweeney still carries some of her usual acting tics—namely that curiously flat affectation that makes it feel like she’s reciting her lines rather than embodying them—but to her credit, it works here more often than not. There’s something compelling about watching Sweeney as Millie getting swept up in the chaos and, eventually, pushing back with just enough steel to sell it. It’s easily one of her better fits, even if her early performance leans on a kind of glassy, affectless pout that feels more posed than lived-in. That vacant quality oddly works in this context for a lot of this and Sweeney really seems to come to life in the film’s openly explicit sex scenes. A good portion of the audience likely won’t mind how often she ends up fully nude. And when Millie finally pushes back, Sweeney actually finds her groove and becomes pretty darn good.

Seyfried, meanwhile, is on a whole different level: effortlessly toggling between manic and maternal, charming and chilling. Her character may not be the most rigorously written, but Seyfried does everything she can (and then some) to give her layers, contradictions, and the kind of unnerving warmth that makes her character arc feel earned. Sklenar rounds out the triangle nicely, playing the handsome, affable rich husband with the right mix of protectiveness and quiet alarm. The more we learn about his wealthy lineage, the more the film (and McFadden’s source novel) reveals its true target: the casually cruel elite, insulated from reality by generational wealth and totally unfamiliar with the banal panic of everyday survival: rent, food, healthcare, consequences.

At two hours and eleven minutes, The Housemaid does occasionally dawdle, but never enough to kill the buzz. It’s consistently fun, often ridiculous, and surprisingly sharp when it wants to be. The dark humor that bubbles up—especially in Seyfried’s increasingly unhinged delivery—is part of what makes the film work so well. Feig, long known for comedy, continues to transition into white people erotic thriller territory after the viciously entertaining A Simple Favor and its (less-well-received) sequel. His timing instincts, honed through years of comedic setups and punchlines, translate beautifully into tension-building and release and he’s definitely at the top of his game with The Housemaid. He knows how to escalate a moment, then twist it just enough to keep you off-balance and then inject just enough dark humor to elevate the material’s charming cheese. The final act here succumbs to conveniently-timed explanation but is such a wildly satisfying hootenanny that you’ll be just lapping it up. That it’s capped with a killer sequence that cheekily hints there might be more story left for this housemaid to tell only further cements how effective it all is.

CONCLUSION: A campy erotic thriller that balances entertaining schlock, unapologetic titillation, and a steady stream of juicy twists, Paul Feig’s ‘The Housemaid’ unleashes Sydney Sweeney, Amanda Seyfried, and Brandon Sklenar to upper-crust suburban mania to keep the cheap thrills coming fast and loose.