Pure pulp, lovingly packaged: wealthy household, simmering secrets, someone probably getting stabbed with something expensive. The Housemaid knows exactly what it is — a glossy, campy throwback to the kind of erotic thrillers that clogged up 90s cinema — and mostly commits to the bit.
Amanda Seyfried is the reason it works at all. She does the unhinged-housewife turn with real precision: every smile slightly too wide, every breakdown perfectly calibrated. That only makes Sydney Sweeney feel flatter by comparison — blank reaction shots, a character who barely stirs until the final act.
Still, the schlocky momentum carries it further than it deserves. Not subtle, not clever, but just pulpy enough to keep your eyes on the screen. Most of the time, anyway.