There is probably not a universe where The Housemaid was going to be a “good” movie in any traditional sense. It’s based on the trashy Freida McFadden novel of the same name, with a twist suited to a Dateline episode. Still, the adaptation could have been a fun movie, or a good bad movie. But instead, it’s another Sydney Sweeney-fronted dud following Madame Web, Eden, and Christy.
In adapting McFadden’s book, director Paul Feig could have leaned hard into the erotic thriller aspect of the novel, evoking gloriously trashy ’90s films like The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, Cruel Intentions, or Basic Instinct. In these movies, sex, greed, and mind-fuckery all blend to a heady effect. Sure, some might decry it as lowbrow, but these movies are undeniably satisfyingly thrilling entertainment.
Or Feig could have gone the way of his Simple Favor movies, leaning into the campy, twisted fun of watching two cinematic divas face off. The Housemaid might have resembled such epically sexy and sick movies as The Favourite, The Substance, Single White Female, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, or — my personal favorite — Death Becomes Her.
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