The Maid: a little guilty pleasure? (critical)
The film adaptation of the novel-phenomenon navigates between soft eroticism, algorithmic efficiency and degenerate Hitchockism.
The HousekeeperFreida McFadden’s bestseller, seemed made for the cinema. Not only because of its massive success, but also for its plot which is part of a genealogy that goes from Rebecca to Gone Girl, including Haunting, The Hand on the Cradle, Misery… A lineage which could have pushed director Paul Feig towards a form of post-Hitchcockian mannerism, like Joe Wright from The Woman in the Window. But no: the aesthetic is that of a decoration catalog, the narration does not allow itself any gray areas, as if the film had first been designed for its consumption on a platform, by spectators who would have their minds elsewhere.
The first act gently teases, with its soft-porn bursts à la Fifty Shades of Grey, its camera lingering on Sydney Sweeney’s breasts or Brandon Sklenar’s posterior. Everything here is so stated, highlighted, that when Amanda Seyfried takes over the voiceover halfway through, we have the impression less of being in front of a Gone Girl twist than of listening to the audiobook The Maid – the images almost seem superfluous.
It’s the third part that saves the furniture, when the whole thing turns into a filthy horror thriller and assumes its nature as a by-product. The climax taking place while a TV broadcasts a cinematic masterpiece (Barry Lyndon) in the background, one can’t help but think that Feig shot this with a big ironic smile on his face. It’s too long, damn, the story is incredible… But we’d be lying if we said we didn’t have a good time.
By Paul Feig. With Sydney Sweeney, Amanda Seyfried, Brandon Sklenar… Duration 2h11. Released December 24, 2025
