‘The Housemaid’ – Review
Christmas is almost here, and while most filmmakers are content to serve up cosy sentimentality and sugar-dusted escapism, Paul Feig has other, far more dangerous ideas on his mind. With The Housemaid, the filmmaker behind Bridesmaids and A Simple Favor delivers a seductive, scandal-soaked psychological thriller that slithers under your skin and refuses to let go. This is not a film about comfort or joy – it’s about control, obsession, and the kind of creeping dread that makes you grip the armrest just a little tighter.
Adapted from Freida McFadden’s best-selling novel, The Housemaid arrives as one of the most shocking, compulsively watchable cinema experiences of the year. Equal parts Hitchcockian mind game and modern true-crime fantasy, it’s a film engineered to thrill audiences who live for podcasts about sinister suburbia, missing women, and secrets hiding behind pristine white fences.
Millie Calloway (Sydney Sweeney), a young woman with a troubled past who became a live-in housemaid for a wealthy family, however, their seemingly perfect life unravels when she discovers their household hides dark secrets beneath the surface.
At the centre of The Housemaid is Millie Calloway (Sydney Sweeney), a young woman clinging to survival after a troubled past has left her with few options and fewer allies. When she lands a live-in housemaid position with the wealthy Winchester family, it feels less like a job and more like a miracle. Their Long Island estate is immaculate, bathed in old-money luxury and East Coast elegance, a world away from Millie’s instability and desperation.
Presiding over this gleaming kingdom is Nina Winchester (Amanda Seyfried), the picture of refined perfection – cool, polished, and effortlessly beautiful. Nina’s husband Andrew (Brandon Sklenar) completes the fantasy: handsome, attentive, and quietly magnetic. For Millie, stepping into the Winchesters’ world is intoxicating, and Feig is smart enough to let the audience feel that allure too.
But perfection never lasts. Strange incidents begin to mount, Nina’s behaviour grows increasingly erratic, and subtle psychological games creep into everyday interactions. What starts as discomfort soon escalates into something far more disturbing, and Millie finds herself trapped inside a house that feels less like a home and more like a beautifully decorated cage.
In recent years, Paul Feig has undergone a fascinating evolution as a filmmaker. Having conquered comedy, he pivoted toward mystery and suspense with A Simple Favor, teasing audiences with glamour, danger, and shifting power dynamics. With The Housemaid, he goes even further, fully embracing the psycho-thriller and crafting a film that thrives on tension, misdirection, and cruel revelations.
Feig’s direction here is unapologetically Hitchcockian. He understands the power of withholding information, of letting the audience think they’re ahead of the story before yanking the rug out from under them. Just when you believe you’ve cracked the film’s code, The Housemaid detonates a second-act twist so shocking it practically knocks the wind out of the room. It’s the kind of reveal that sends gasps rippling through the cinema and leaves viewers scrambling to recontextualise everything they’ve just seen.
This is a film that plays fair but ruthless, constantly reshaping its narrative while maintaining a firm grip on suspense. Feig knows exactly when to tighten the screws and when to let the silence speak.
There’s no denying that The Housemaid is precision-engineered for a very specific audience, and that’s a compliment. Feig clearly understands the psychology of millennial and Gen Z viewers raised on true-crime documentaries, TikTok theories, and podcast deep dives into domestic horror. The film taps directly into that fascination with hidden violence, unreliable narratives, and the unsettling idea that the greatest threats often wear the most reassuring smiles.
Visually, the film is pure indulgence. The Winchesters’ home is a temple of Long Island old-money glamour, all tailored elegance and magazine-ready interiors, ripped straight from a Ralph Lauren catalogue. This pristine aesthetic only heightens the dread, creating a chilling contrast between surface-level beauty and the rot beneath. It’s glossy, luxurious, and deeply unsettling – a feast for the eyes that makes the horrors feel even more intimate.
Sydney Sweeney continues to prove why she’s one of the most compelling performers of her generation. Often framed as Hollywood’s modern-day Marilyn Monroe, Sweeney plays with audience expectations here, weaponising vulnerability and innocence before gradually revealing something far darker.
As Millie, she is isolated, frightened, and increasingly desperate, pushed into a psychological corner where survival becomes the only goal. Sweeney allows the character’s fear to simmer rather than explode, building toward moments of raw intensity that land with devastating force. It’s a performance that demands empathy while constantly challenging the audience’s assumptions, and it stands as her strongest work of the year.
If Sweeney grounds the film emotionally, Amanda Seyfried sets it ablaze. As Nina Winchester, Seyfried delivers a masterclass in controlled instability, slowly cracking the porcelain mask of domestic perfection to reveal something truly terrifying underneath.
Her transformation is chilling, unpredictable, and frequently jaw-dropping. Every smile feels calculated, every outburst destabilising. Seyfried dominates the screen whenever she appears, turning Nina into both a fascination and a nightmare. It’s a fearless performance that will leave audiences deeply unsettled – and utterly unable to look away.
Feig doesn’t forget to stack the deck with temptation. Brandon Sklenar’s Andrew Winchester is the embodiment of privileged allure; charming, wealthy, and emotionally elusive. Sklenar commands attention effortlessly, making Andrew both irresistible and suspicious, the kind of man audiences want to trust even as alarm bells start ringing.
Opposite him is Michele Morrone as Enzo, the brooding groundsman whose quiet presence conceals secrets of his own. Morrone brings a simmering intensity to the role, adding another layer of intrigue and sexual tension. Together, these performances add fuel to the film’s already volatile emotional landscape.
What truly sets The Housemaid apart is its relentless momentum. From its tightly wound opening through its shocking midsection and nerve-shredding final act, the film never loses its grip. Feig orchestrates each department with precision: cinematography, production design, and score all working in perfect harmony to sustain unease.
This is a hard R-rated experience that pulls no punches. Heightened violence, steamy sexuality, and psychological cruelty collide in a feverish spiral of chaos. The Housemaid doesn’t aim to comfort its audience; it wants to provoke, disturb, and thrill them until the final frame.
The Housemaid may not be your traditional Christmas movie, but it’s an electrifying way to close out the year. Stylish, savage, and endlessly unpredictable, it delivers a fresh jolt of energy to the thriller genre and cements itself as one of the most original and talked-about films of 2025.
For the true-crime girlies, the suspense junkies, and anyone craving a cinematic experience that actually dares to shock, The Housemaid is essential viewing. You won’t guess where it’s going – and that’s exactly the point.
Image: StudioCanal
