'The Housemaid' review: Amanda Seyfried and Sydney Sweeney deliver high-camp thrills

Courtesy of Lionsgate

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Currently riding the wave of literary IP at a time when Hollywood is desperate for any semblance of built-in brand recognition, Paul Feig’s “The Housemaid” arrives as a deliriously silly romp that works best when you stop interrogating every beat and simply let it pull you along. Based on the bestselling novel by Freida McFadden and adapted for the screen by Rebecca Sonnenshine, the film is a sleek, twist-heavy psychological thriller that plays like a very (very) distant cousin to “Gone Girl.” And I mean that as a compliment.

Feig, who hasn’t really delivered anything close to a true hit since “A Simple Favor,” finds his footing here by fully embracing the novel’s inherent camp. Sonnenshine’s screenplay smartly preserves the heightened tone of the source material while giving it the kind of clean, propulsive structure that works on screen. The result is a knowingly over-the-top thriller that understands its own wavelength and never pretends to be subtler than it is.

The movie is powered by a wildly unpredictable turn from Amanda Seyfried, who dominates nearly every scene she’s in. Alongside her is Sydney Sweeney, who more than holds her own and finally lands a mainstream vehicle post–“Anyone But You,” that actually feels worthy of her talents. She should have put her awards-season muscle behind this instead of “Christie.” At least this one knows exactly what lane it’s operating in.

“The Housemaid” wastes no time setting its wheels in motion. We’re introduced to Millie (Sweeney), a young woman desperate for work and quietly living out of her car. When she lands an interview with the wealthy Nina Winchester (Seyfried), who needs a live-in maid to manage household chores and shuttle her daughter to ballet, Millie jumps at the opportunity. Nothing alarming on paper. Except for the attic bedroom. And the locks.

From Millie’s very first day, the house feels off. The place is in disarray, and while she immediately gets to work, the situation only grows more unstable. Nina’s temperament swings wildly from warm, almost clingy domestic bliss to something far more volatile, a shift made especially jarring given that just the day before she told Millie, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Are you sensing a pattern here?

Feig lays his narrative breadcrumbs generously, inviting viewers to play along even as the film repeatedly nudges them toward obvious conclusions. When Nina’s tall, brooding, and suspiciously alluring husband Andrew (Brandon Sklenar) enters the frame, the tension sharpens considerably. Sklenar brings a quiet, coiled presence to the role, playing Andrew as guarded and deliberately unreadable. His performance thrives on implication rather than exposition, making every glance and half-answered question feel loaded. You’re never quite sure if he’s trapped, complicit, or something far worse, and that ambiguity becomes one of the film’s most effective tools. If looks could kill, this dude would have it. 

Subtlety still isn’t the movie’s primary concern. At one point, Nina snarls, “Stay the fuck away from my husband,” a line delivery so blunt it practically functions as a narrative dare. From there, the film settles into a gleeful game of psychological chicken that plays directly to the strengths of Seyfried and Sweeney, both of whom also serve as executive producers.

Sweeney, in particular, locks into Millie’s frequency as the story progresses. In the back half of the film, she taps into something colder and more unnerving, revealing a layered performance that rewards patience. Readers of the book will know exactly when the shift happens. When it does, Sweeney handles it with confidence and control, proving she’s more than capable of carrying darker, more twisted material.

Still, the movie ultimately belongs to Seyfried. Freed from the expectations of prestige-driven roles, she appears to relish every opportunity to push Nina further into instability. Coming off something as controlled as “The Testament of Ann Lee,” this turn is a bracing reminder of her versatility. She walks a razor-thin emotional tightrope, oscillating between charm, hysteria, and genuine vulnerability. You never quite know where her character stands, and that unpredictability is what fuels the film’s chaotic momentum. Beneath the theatrics, Seyfried even allows moments of fragility to sneak through, complicating our response to her in surprisingly effective ways.

“The Housemaid” is high camp executed with confidence. It’s the kind of movie that plays best with an audience willing to lean in rather than lean back. Logic is secondary to momentum, and restraint is abandoned early on. Feig and Sonnenshine understand exactly when to wink, when to escalate, and when to let the story tip fully into excess. They also know how to exploit their lead stars and not be afraid to flaunt just how hot they are. 

Not every escalation lands, but the commitment behind each choice is undeniable. Anchored by three performances that fully understand the assignment, “The Housemaid” stands out in a marketplace crowded with half-hearted adaptations. At a moment when Hollywood clings desperately to recognizable titles, this one succeeds by remembering something far more important: if you’re going to invite us inside, you’d better make the stay memorable. Messy. Unhinged. And very, very fun. 

Remember when Hollywood used to make one of every other week? A “Basic Instinct” here, a “Fatal Attraction” there. I’m not saying “The Housemaid” belongs in that company, but there’s a shared DNA, a certain lurid pleasure it’s clearly in conversation with. It’s slick, serviceable, and entertaining. And sometimes, that’s all you need. 

Grade: B 

THE HOUSEMAID opens in theaters Friday, December 19th