by Anthony O'Connor
Worth: $14.50
FilmInk rates movies out of $20 — the score indicates the amount we believe a ticket to the movie to be worth
Cast:
Sydney Sweeney, Amanda Seyfried, Brandon Sklenar, Michele Morrone, Elizabeth Perkins, Indiana Elle
Intro:
… a shameless throwback to thrillers that were toey, trashy and proudly wore their underpants on their heads in enthusiastic defiance of logic, reason and restraint.
Of all the cultural artefacts of yesteryear that we no longer get to appreciate – like video stores, Tamagotchis and affordable housing – perhaps the most missed are the psychological or erotic thrillers that populated the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. You know the ones, flicks like Basic Instinct (1992), Single White Female (1992), Poison Ivy (1992) and Sliver (1993). These were lurid, bombastic and very sexy yarns that featured unlikely characters, absurd, overwrought narratives and yet were deliciously enjoyable despite all that. These days they don’t tend to get made anymore, apart from an occasional misfire like The Voyeurs (2021) or Deep Water (2022), so it’s always nice when a studio dusts off its inner schlock merchant and delivers well made pulpy trash like Paul Feig’s latest, The Housemaid, based on the popular books by Freida McFadden and oozing with early ‘90s energy.
The Housemaid is the story of desperate ex-con Millie Calloway (Sydney Sweeney) who, after spending a decade in the pokey, is desperate for a job, any job, so she can stop living in her car. Enter nervy, skittish Nina Winchester (Amanda Seyfried), a wealthy woman, wife and mother who is looking for a housemaid and, somewhat inexplicably, hires Millie. It’s not the perfect gig, mind you. Nina is clearly madder than a sack full of cats and her daughter, Cecelia (Indiana Elle) is downright unsettling. The man of the house, hunky Andrew (Brandon Sklenar), is a whole other story and seems to be the rock to whom everyone clings. But as Nina’s behaviour becomes more and more erratic, at times downright psychotic, Millie begins to wonder if she might have been better off kipping in her car after all. And then, well, the wheels come off and everything goes to hell.
No one on this planet is going to confuse The Housemaid with a “good” movie. This isn’t worthy Oscar bait where you stroke your chin and ponder the themes and understated ambiguity. No. The Housemaid is camp nonsense. The characters are thin, the scenarios are absurdly rendered, and the plot twists are both stunningly obvious and howlingly unrealistic. And yet, for all of that, there is a boatload of fun to be had. The cast is an obvious selling point as Sweeney, Seyfried and Skelnar are all excellent. The chemistry between Millie and Andrew is particularly spicy and it’s nice to see movies embrace being a bit horny again. More of this sort of thing, please.
Paul Feig, a dab hand at this flavour of material, manages to inject enough wry, knowing humour into the proceedings that will reassure you, the viewer, that yes, he knows how ridiculous this all is, but maybe lighten up and have a good time.
The Housemaid, much like its source material, is disposable, silly, pulp. Gleefully resistant to the current trend of po-faced “worthy” movies, it’s a shameless throwback to thrillers that were toey, trashy and proudly wore their underpants on their heads in enthusiastic defiance of logic, reason and restraint.
