The Housewife

In too many movies and shows, a reveal like this is kept until late on in the story, far after the audience has already pieced together what’s really going on. This one trusts its viewers to pick up on the clues that are carefully sprinkled throughout. Shirinian understands the audience is likely too clever to keep the mystery going for long, and it’s this decision to reveal the truth early on that opens up the story in many new and exciting ways.

The film’s biggest asset is, obviously, Watts, who fearlessly digs deep and comes up with some of the best work of her career.

It’s a welcome reminder of what Watts, who’s been either ill-used or unchallenged in too many of her recent film vehicles, can do with a role that steps up to her adaptable, slightly unknowable screen presence.

Instead of a reckoning, The Housewife feels more like a retrospective news program – it makes some salient points, but we’ve heard them all before.

While Watts is doing precise, carefully moderated work, the actors and filmmaking around her often seem incapable of the same subtlety. The supporting characters can feel more like caricatures than real people. It adds up to a film that screams the obvious while speeding past its most interesting narrative hook. And one carefully calibrated lead performance simply can’t overcome an uneven script and an ensemble prone to overacting.

The end result simply disappoints.

While some scenes flirt with the idea of something juicier, this is a stuffy and stodgy slab of self-serious, old-school Oscar bait complete with all the shouting, crying, throwing and finger-pointing one would expect. Think overcooked rather than slow simmer.