The Housemaid review: Bad. Like bad bad. Not fun bad.
There is probably not a universe where The Housemaid was going to be a "good" movie in any traditional sense. It's based on the trashy Freida McFadden novel of the same name, with a twist suited to a Dateline episode. Still, the adaptation could have been a fun movie, or a good bad movie. But instead, it's another Sydney Sweeney-fronted dud following Madame Web, Eden, and Christy.
In adapting McFadden's book, director Paul Feig could have leaned hard into the erotic thriller aspect of the novel, evoking gloriously trashy '90s films like The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, Cruel Intentions, or Basic Instinct. In these movies, sex, greed, and mind-fuckery all blend to a heady effect. Sure, some might decry it as lowbrow, but these movies are undeniably satisfyingly thrilling entertainment.
Or Feig could have gone the way of his Simple Favor movies, leaning into the campy, twisted fun of watching two cinematic divas face off. The Housemaid might have resembled such epically sexy and sick movies as The Favourite, The Substance, Single White Female, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, or — my personal favorite — Death Becomes Her.
Sadly, The Housemaid doesn't have enough style to hold a candle to any of these fierce films. And it certainly doesn't have substance. But it does have Sydney Sweeney, once more proving her lack of range.
Sydney Sweeney is woefully miscast in The Housemaid.
After the flopped biopic Christy, Sweeney takes another swing at playing a working-class woman with unhoused twentysomething Millie Calloway, who is in desperate need of of a job and a home. So, the live-in housemaid gig at the Winchester mansion in Great Neck, Long Island, seems too good to be true.
Tending to the needs of thirtysomething stay-at-home mom Nina Winchester (Amanda Seyfried), her snotty daughter, Cecilia (Indiana Elle), and her dashing husband, Andrew (Brandon Sklenar), should be easy enough. But no sooner does Millie move in that Nina begins to bully and gaslight her. The housemaid's only respite from Nina's cruelty is the kindness of Andrew. But as the maid and the man grow closer, so does danger.
It's a premise that flips the Hand That Rocks the Cradle conceit on its head, where it's the humble help that's being tormented by a vicious housewife. However, McFadden's book was told from the perspective of Millie and Nina, giving us an insight into their thought processes — especially when they don't dare say aloud what they're thinking. The movie brings over some of this through Millie's diary and a letter Nina writes to Cecilia. Mostly, however, The Housemaid relies on the actresses' dialogue delivery and reaction to build their characters. And Sweeney is giving us nothing.
Confoundingly, the adapted screenplay from Rebecca Sonnenshine offers little out the gate. The movie opens — not in medias res like the book — but with a sullen Millie driving through Nina's posh neighborhood in her POS car. Sweeney's blank expression offers nothing about who Millie is or what she's feeling. And it's this same expression that pops up again and again whether Millie is being tormented, seduced, or pushed to a dramatic reaction. Far from establishing the scrappy survivor from McFadden's novel, Sweeney's take on the character is so blasé that it's just boring to watch her. She gave more emotion in that polarizing jeans ad.
Amanda Seyfried goes for the gusto, but can't save The Housemaid.
Feig went against the book's description of Nina, who was called "fat" in a variety of ways in the novel, instead casting Seyfried, who looks a lot like Sweeney. There's a bit of a Single White Female intrigue to that, as these doppelgängers face off. But Seyfried, who turned in one of the best performances of 2025 with The Testament of Ann Lee, is left unsupported by her fellow cast members and her director.
Nina Winchester is meant to be outrageously unhinged. Her behavior — in both the book and the movie — is viciously volatile, as she repeatedly sets Millie up to be scorned, embarrassed, and much worse. On the page, she reads like a Ryan Murphy diva, the kind who'd raise hell on All's Fair. Seyfried reaches for these dark places, caterwauling and glaring accusingly. But she is effectively in a vacuum of blah.
Feig has not given her the eye-catching fashions of A Simple Favor or the fascinating set designs of The Substance. The cinematography from John Schwartzman doesn't embrace Seyfried's projected madness, but shrinks from it. For instance, in one scene where Nina has a meltdown in the kitchen, smashing plates and slinging accusations, the edit (from Brent White) bounds from one angle to another, never catching her face in frame. Instead, the focus is on Sweeney and Sklenar, who are giving the kind of wooden performances most often seen in forgettable Lifetime movies. (Not looking at you, A Deadly Adoption! You're sublime.)
The Housemaid's sex scenes aren't too hot for TV.
As you might expect, Millie turns to Andrew for comfort from his cruel wife, then the two begin an affair. The sex scenes are numerous and involve nudity from both performers, which might titillate. Yet as torrid as their romance should feel, the scenes themselves lack heat. There's no real chemistry between Sweeney and Sklenar. And frankly, as at-home audiences are thrilled over the forbidden romance and hot sex in Heated Rivalry, it's almost funny how tame this rated R theatrical release feels. Almost. Another word for how The Housemaid feels is disappointing.
McFadden's novel initially leaned heavily on black-and-white portraits of put-upon Millie and malevolent Nina to the point where it telegraphs the big twist. But that extreme portrayal in the novel could have been explored in the film with theatrical performances that urge the audience to enjoy the audaciousness of their conflict and its chaotic climax. Fieg and Sonnenshine could have radically shifted the film's aesthetic once the big secret of Nina's is unveiled, changing the way we see her with an engaging visual shift. But they chose not to.
To Sonnenshine and Feig's credit, they strive to work in horror elements, like a mirror jump scare, a leering groundskeeper (Michael Morrone), and a revised finale that goes into slasher territory. But it all feels pretty shallow. None of these genre cliches elevate the material or even live up to the novel's addictively trashy energy.
Props to Elizabeth Perkins though, who appears as Andrew's icy mother. With high, meticulously coiffed white hair, a blood-red lipsticked scowl, and the fashion sense of a Waspy Cruella de Vil, Perkins delivers the kind of sharp performance that could have made this movie work — if the others followed her lead. When she cuts her eyes to her daughter-in-law in scorn, I almost expected Nina to bleed.
Alas, this is a movie that contains Perkins' acerbic performance but doesn't deserve it. The trailers and source material of The Housemaid suggest it should be a good night out, relishing in lusty twists, deranged turns, and electrifying diva showdown energy. But in this battle of wild wills, Seyfried is left to shadowbox while Sweeney sleepwalks. Far from fun, The Housemaid is underwhelming as an erotic thriller, a dark comedy, and even a Sydney Sweeney movie.
