The Housemaid doesn’t just clean house—it dusts off expectations, mops the floor with clichés, and polishes tension to a high shine. With spotless performances and a squeaky-clean script hiding dirty secrets, this five-star thriller leaves you swept away long after the final wipe-down.

Plot

Hoping for a fresh start, a young woman becomes a live-in maid for a wealthy couple who harbour sinister secrets.

Review

From the very first sweep of its opening moments, The Housemaid proves that sometimes the dirtiest secrets aren’t hidden under the rug—they are the rug. This is the kind of film that invites you in politely, offers you a cup of tea, and then quietly rearranges the furniture of your expectations while you’re not looking. By the time you realise what kind of house you’ve stepped into, you’re already hooked, keys handed over, and fully prepared to stay.

What elevates The Housemaid to five-star territory is its remarkable confidence. The film never rushes, never over-explains, and never underestimates its audience. Instead, it builds tension with patience and precision, letting atmosphere do as much work as dialogue. Every scene feels intentional, layered with subtle glances, pauses, and unspoken power dynamics that make the story simmer rather than boil over. It’s a masterclass in restraint, where silence can feel louder than any dramatic outburst.

The performances are nothing short of exceptional. The lead delivers a nuanced portrayal that balances vulnerability with quiet strength, making the character deeply compelling without ever spelling everything out. There’s an authenticity to the performance that draws you in emotionally—you don’t just watch this character exist in the space; you feel it. 

The performances in The Housemaid are a major reason the film works as powerfully as it does, with Sydney Sweeney, Amanda Seyfried, Brandon Sklenar, and Michele Morrone each bringing a distinct energy that strengthens the story without ever tipping it into excess. What’s impressive is how well these performances complement one another, creating a cast dynamic that feels balanced, believable, and quietly combustible.

Sydney Sweeney anchors the film with a performance rooted in emotional honesty. She brings a grounded vulnerability to her role, allowing the audience to connect with her character on a deeply human level. Her strength lies in restraint—small shifts in body language, fleeting expressions, and moments of silence do just as much storytelling as the dialogue. It’s a performance that draws empathy without asking for it, making her character’s presence feel lived-in rather than performed.

Amanda Seyfried delivers a commanding turn that is both polished and intriguingly layered. She exudes confidence and control, using subtle vocal inflections and precise physicality to suggest depth beneath the surface. Seyfried has an exceptional ability to project warmth and unease simultaneously, which keeps her character fascinating to watch. Every scene she’s in carries a sense of tension, driven largely by her ability to imply far more than she ever explicitly reveals.

Brandon Sklenar brings a steady, grounded presence to the film, providing emotional weight without overpowering the narrative. His performance feels natural and understated, offering moments of sincerity that add texture to the story. He plays his role with quiet conviction, making his character feel believable and emotionally accessible, which helps balance the more intense dynamics unfolding around him.

Michele Morrone adds a contrasting intensity, delivering a performance marked by controlled physicality and simmering energy. He communicates as much through posture and presence as he does through dialogue, creating an undercurrent of tension whenever he’s on screen. Morrone’s performance is confident and compelling, adding another layer to the film’s interpersonal dynamics without overshadowing the ensemble.

Together, the cast forms a cohesive unit, with each actor enhancing the film’s psychological depth. Their performances intersect in ways that feel organic and charged, proving that The Housemaid succeeds not just because of its story, but because of the actors who bring its emotional complexity to life. 

If you haven’t read the book, consider diving in and read Freida McFadden’s masterpiece as well. The book and movie aren’t too far apart, but the movie delivers an explosive ending. There are also other books in the Housemaid series.

Visually, The Housemaid is striking without being flashy. The cinematography uses space, light, and framing to reinforce themes of control, observation, and unease. Ordinary domestic settings are transformed into places of quiet intimidation, proving that horror—or at least deep discomfort—doesn’t need darkness to thrive. Even the smallest details, from set design to costuming, feel deliberate and symbolic, enriching the story without ever distracting from it.

What truly sets this film apart is how it lingers. Rather than relying on shock value, The Housemaid leaves an emotional and psychological imprint. It encourages reflection long after the credits roll, prompting you to reconsider earlier moments and reassess what you thought you understood. That kind of staying power is rare, and it’s a testament to the film’s smart writing and assured direction.

In the end, The Housemaid doesn’t just clean up—it absolutely sweeps, deserving of a 5-star rating. With its sharp performances, intelligent storytelling, and impeccably maintained tension, this film earns every one of its five stars. Consider this a glowing recommendation: just remember, once you let The Housemaid into your home, it may rearrange more than you expect. On that note, “Please, please please” go and watch The Housemaid at a cinema near you.

My heartfelt thanks to Electric Monkey Books for gifting me an ARC of “The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire” through NetGalley in exchange for my honest review. It felt less like receiving a book and more like being handed a key to a secret, rain-dampened gate that opened onto a world of shadowed forests, silver-threaded skies, and stories that will linger in my heart long after the last page.

UNWAITH AR Y TRO (ONCE UPON A TIME)

Some stories do not simply invite you in; they call to you, like the distant echo of a harp over the misted hills, the way the wind whispers through gorse and heather. “The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire” is one such tale. It is a dark, glittering, and deeply Welsh romantasy that slips under your skin like the shadow of a half-forgotten lullaby, blending the perilous beauty of Pan’s Labyrinth, the whimsy and world of Jim Henson’s Labyrinth and the Dark Crystal, the yearning of Bridge to Terabithia, and the wonder of The Spiderwick Chronicles and the decadence of Peter Pan but shot through with the heart, hiraeth, and mythos of Cymru.

From the first page, “The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire” had me utterly spellbound, Anna Fiteni’s words weaving an eerie, otherworldly atmosphere that seemed to curl like mist around my shoulders. Every line shimmered with magic, but it was never a safe magic; it was the kind that glints with danger just beneath the surface, daring you to step closer. As I read, I felt that familiar pull in my chest, hiraeth, a yearning for loved ones long gone, and the worlds hidden in our hills and streams. This book is steeped in that same soul-deep Welsh folklore, populated by whimsical, wild, and sometimes frightening beings born from the old beliefs of my people, like Mari Lwyd, the Cyhyraeth, Ceffyl Dŵr, and Pwca. And yet, amidst the peril, there is beauty, warmth, and a fierce heartbeat, a reminder that even the darkest tales can hold the light.

Set in a small 1800s mining village, Fiteni’s debut is steeped in the grit and poetry of Wales: the coal dust that clings to your skin, the chapel bells, the stubborn survival of a people whose land and language (iaith y nefoedd, “the language of heaven”) have been stolen and suppressed, yet endure. Sabrina Parry, our prickly and imperfect heroine, has learned to survive with sharp words and sharper wits. Her sister Ceridwen, gentle, romantic, with a heart too soft for the world, vanishes into the gwyll (twilight) of the nearby woods, leaving behind an iron ring. To save her, Sabrina must cross into Eu Gwald, the perilous realm of the Tylwyth Teg. And here, Fiteni gives us a fairytale as it should be: beautiful and rotting, intoxicating and dangerous. This is not the softened, modern Fae; these are the tricksters of old tales, the kind my Tad-cu used to whisper about at bedtime. The ones you’d leave milk out for… and pray never to meet. In Habren Faire, the moonlight hides teeth, and bargains are binding in ways no mortal can quite escape.

I cried tears, real, unashamed tears, because this world and these characters have a chokehold on me, the kind that leaves you thinking about them long after you’ve closed the book. Sabrina Parry has steamrolled her way into my heart with all the grace of a storm battering the coast. She is everything you’d expect a fantasy heroine not to be, and yet somehow, so much more: spiteful, unflinchingly honest in her lies, a troublemaker who cheats, irritates, and gleefully upends lives when it suits her. She looks the neat little path destiny has drawn for her square in the eye, and probably punches whoever dared to suggest she follow it in the first place. And still, she is fiercely loving, deeply loyal, the kind of person who will knock you out or cut off your finger if it means protecting the people she cares for. Fiteni writes her with the same rough-edged, beating heart as the March sisters from Little Women, and her family — her Da, her sister Ceridwen, her Gran- feel as though they’ve stepped straight out of a literary classic and into this wild fae world. There’s a touch of Alice in Wonderland’s madness here too, all swirled with a Tim Burton-esque shadow, making it both unsettling and utterly irresistible.

Neirin oh, Neirin, the annoyingly magnetic fae prince who barges into Sabrina’s quest and into my thoughts far more than I care to admit. He is cut from the same stardust-and-sin cloth as David Bowie’s Jareth, all vanity and silver-tongued charm, at once dazzlingly clever and utterly foolish. His name feels almost too noble for someone so deliciously self-absorbed, so preening, so obsessed with humanity, and yet dangerously unpredictable. There’s something slick in the way his brown eyes catch the light, his lashes casting shadows like spider legs across his cheek. His wavy black hair is streaked with silver, gleaming as if someone dipped a brush in moonlight, and he wears black velvet embroidered with constellations, stars, moons, and planets stitched in silver thread, like he’s wearing the night sky itself. Fiteni infuses him with an edginess that reminds me of Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream; indeed, the whole Ellyllon court has that Shakespearean blend of mischief, beauty, and lurking peril. Neirin is both a lovable rogue and playful trickster, and the slow-burn tension between him and Sabrina is a quiet thread woven into the greater tapestry, all the more intoxicating for its restraint. With betrayals twisting in the dark and their banter crackling from irritation to something far more dangerous, I found my heart racing every time they shared the page.

The LGBTQ+ representation in The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire is woven as seamlessly into the fabric of the story as the silver threads in Neirin’s velvet coat, natural, unforced, and all the more beautiful for it. Fiteni doesn’t treat queerness as a spectacle or side note; it simply exists here, alive and unashamed, as it should in any world worth escaping to. Among the Tylwyth Teg and all their tricksy kind, selkies are slipping between sea and shore, and mermaids, morgens, whose songs curl through the waves with love and longing for more than one kind of heart. In a tale so deeply rooted in Welsh folklore and history, it felt like a quiet, defiant act of reclamation, a reminder that our stories, like our people, have always been more varied, more complex, and more wondrous than the narrow paths history tried to confine them to.

Thematically, Fiteni captures something I rarely see done so deftly in fantasy: the bittersweet ache of growing up, of leaving home, of returning to find it altered, and knowing you have been altered too. She threads in grief with quiet grace: grief for the dead, for the selves we leave behind, but also for the loss of stories and traditions under the weight of colonisation. As a Welsh reader, I felt my heart clench at the way she honours the mining communities, their sacrifices, their stolen labour, their resilience and at the way she refuses to sand the edges off Welsh identity. 

“The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire” feels, to me, like a love letter to Wales, a celebration of everything that makes my homeland what it is. Too often, romantasy novels borrow from Welsh myth and landscape without ever acknowledging, let alone interrogating, the roots of their inspiration. But Fiteni does not just nod to Wales; she treasures it, honours it, and breathes life into its heart. Giving us, the reader, the relentless rain that slicks the slate roofs, the forests that seem to go on forever until they spill into the mist, and the ancient stone castles that rise from the hills like something out of a dream. This is a Wales that is both real and mythical, where the grit of the coal seams lies alongside the shimmer of faerie light, and where every page feels steeped in that aching, longing for home.

There is hiraeth in these pages that deep, untranslatable longing for a place, a time, a feeling that can never be fully recaptured. And yet, there is hope too. Hope in the fierce, messy love between sisters. Hope in the idea that even bargains with the Fae might be survived, if not won. Hope in the survival of the story itself. Fiteni’s prose is lush without being overwrought, laced with the cadence of a fireside folktale. She balances whimsy with peril, tenderness with sharp teeth. The ending is as it must be bittersweet, leaving you breathless, a little bruised, and aching to walk again among the shadowed groves of Eu Gwald.

There are books that you finish and remember for their plot, and then there are books that leave you with words that root themselves deep in your bones. “The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire” gifted me more than one such line, the kind you carry like talismans. “Even when you’re as old as me, if you’re not happy, then you’re not at the end,” is a quiet, defiant reminder that life is not a straight path to some fixed point, and that joy, no matter your age, is worth chasing until your last breath. “People love us for our efforts”, spoke to the marrow of my being; that we are valued not solely for success, but for the trying, the striving, the reaching beyond our limits. Fiteni’s reflection that “our lives are small… a speck of dust on an old coat or a mayfly at the start of its first and only day, but from them spring a thousand stories” is both humbling and electrifying, a reminder that even the smallest existence can be a universe to someone. The notion that “we’re all being used by a big house somewhere” is a bitter truth dressed in whimsy, hinting at the invisible powers, be they political, economic, or fae, that shape our lives without consent. And beneath it all is the warning: “All the best lies sprout from a seed of truth.” It is a lesson in discernment, in knowing that what feels real may only be the bait, and that when you have less, the things you hold, love, trust, and belong matter infinitely more. These quotes did not just shape my reading experience; they shaped me.

For me, “The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire” was like finding the path to the worlds I used to dream of as a child, listening to my grandad speak of the Tylwyth Teg worlds I thought I’d outgrown, but which were only sleeping. This book woke them, giving me back my sight and for that, I am grateful. 

“The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire” will step into the mortal world on August 28th, 2025, and I wholeheartedly recommend letting it sweep you away the moment it does. This is a tale spun of rain and starlight, of hiraeth and heartbreak, of cruel fae bargains and the kind of love, fierce, messy, unyielding, that can outwit even the oldest magic. It is a story to lose yourself in and to carry with you, like a secret charm tucked in your pocket, long after you’ve left the woods behind.

A spellbinding debut — dark as slate, bright as starlight, and full of hiraeth.

In the summer of 2024, my mother sent me a reel on Instagram in which a young man in his mid-twenties was playing a beautiful rendition of “Tum Hi Dekho Na” from the movie “Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna” on his sitar. The tune was so melodious that I saw that 90-second reel for around 20-25 minutes. This made me curious, and I searched more about this talented musician. While searching for this tune on the internet, I learned that the artist’s name was Rishab Rikhiram Sharma, a sitar player and the last disciple of the legendary Pt. Ravi Shankar.

This is how I got to know about Rishab’s music and his journey into this realm. His music made a quiet impact on me, and as soon as he announced his India tour, I knew I had to see him live. Rishab performed to a sold-out crowd in Delhi’s Indira Gandhi Arena, and for almost 2 hours, he mesmerized everyone with his charm, talent, and soulful music.

From the first note of Tilak Shyam, it was evident that this was not going to be an ordinary sitar recital. With gentle strokes and a steady rhythm, Rishab built a meditative atmosphere. He let the raga unravel gradually, with grace and depth. The meends were elegant, the jod section stretched with care, and his taans flowed like poetry. It was the perfect way to open the evening, rooted in tradition, calm yet commanding. However, before he began his performance, he started the night with a little exercise where he told a crowd of 14,000 to inhale and exhale by putting one hand on their heart, and the other on the belly. This was to relax everyone so that they could enjoy the music wholeheartedly. But it seemed he did that to calm himself as well before the performances began, and the atmosphere started getting a bit more energetic.

(Image Courtesy: @rishabsmusic/Instagram)

After the melodious introduction to Tilak Shyam, Rishab Rikhiram Sharma looked more relaxed and started performing on his popular tracks. First came Shiv Kailashon Ke Vaasi, a powerful composition inspired by Lord Shiva’s cosmic abode. The artist transitioned from the calm of Tilak Shyam to the intensity of devotion. The slow-burning tune was spiritually rich, and as the other instruments joined in, the performance lifted into another realm. It wasn’t just technical brilliance, it was the way he communicated devotion through every pluck and pause. People didn’t just hear the music, they felt it. It was one of the performances that brought a tear to many eyes, not because of how intense it was, but because of how pure it was.

Meanwhile, Roslyn, a delicate original composition, was quiet and inward-looking. That piece had restraint, melancholy, and vulnerability. The silence between the notes spoke as loudly as the notes themselves.

And then came the unexpected: a sitar rendition of Kal Ho Na Ho. He began the performance by telling the audience to snap their fingers in a rhythm for a while, and no one knew what was going to come. However, he took everyone by storm as soon as he hit the first note. There’s always a risk when you take something iconic and emotional as this Sonu Nigam classic, and interpret it on a classical instrument. But Rishab didn’t just pull it off, he elevated it. The melody flowed beautifully on the sitar, and by the time he reached the chorus, people were lost in people were lost in a wave of memory and meaning. It was deeply nostalgic and a clear nod to how versatile Indian classical instruments can be.

He also gave a tribute to his teacher, Pt. Ravi Shankar, by playing one of the most extraordinary songs, Saare Jahaan Se Accha, on the sitar. In that moment, Rishab became a bridge between the old and the new, the purist and the popular.

(Image Courtesy: @rishabsmusic/Instagram)

The mood suddenly shifted when he played another of his popular tracks, Chanakya, which brought in a completely different energy. It was sharp, full of strategy, just like the man it’s named after. This is where Rishab didn’t hold back, and his storytelling through the sitar shone. Each taan felt like a well-thought-out argument in a debate. The audience was hooked, and applause erupted midway—not something you usually hear during Indian classical concerts. But that’s the Sharma effect. He makes classical music feel immediate and urgent. Just when we thought the emotional waves had crested, Rishab brought out the final act of the night—Taandav. And it wasn’t just a finale, it was a storm. It was pure adrenaline, and the hall vibrated with the energy.

As the show ended,  we all felt we had seen something special. But, as a journalist, I needed to know how others felt. So, I talked to people and they shared how they felt. For Neeti, a resident of Noida, this show was “beyond anything she expected.” Moreover, she felt that the tunes he played were “incredibly calming and therapeutic, and felt like a gentle reset” for her “mind and soul.” Meanwhile, for Samyak, it was an “emotional rollercoaster” performance that brought tears to his eyes. In reality, it was not just a performance, but a therapy session.

What makes Rishab Rikhiram Sharma so impactful is not just his command over the sitar—it’s his ability to make classical music feel alive, relevant, and emotionally direct. For anyone who doubts whether classical music can still move today’s audiences, this concert was a clear, hard-hitting answer. Rishab is not the future of Indian classical music. He is its present, burning bright with passion, power, and precision.

Rishab Rikhiram Sharma is currently touring India.