The first scene of the 60s-set drama The Housewife is a closeup of a whistling kettle, an early “wink, wink” sign that we’re watching a story where tensions are set to boil but also that we’re watching a film of minimal subtlety.
Perhaps if it had been pitched closer to its adjacently named cousin The Housemaid, as a silly, sensationalist thriller, such heavy-handed decision-making would feel more well-suited. But instead, 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.
