Published on April 6, 2026
In the early 1990s, films like this were churned out en masse. The number of times the wicked villain, supposedly dead, rises to give us one last scare barely varied. Inevitably, in every attempt to neutralize the threat, every character from the small group of good protagonists—be it couple, family, friends, or community—partakes in the action. Even the most passive or maladapted character found redemption through a blow to the head or a stab to the neck. In this type of Hollywood film, the group that unites to kill the villain remains united.
For those films, the motivations of each villain were more varied than they are today. It was not simply resolved with a sadistic, heteronormative male abuser. Sadistic, yes, because that has always worked for American audiences on screen, but it could stem from greed, revenge, childhood trauma, complex issues, or vices. Yet, we always ended up finishing off the monster three or four times: gunshots, a blow to the back of the head with an ashtray, hanging by a hairdryer cord, being thrown down the stairs, impaled on the jagged glass of a broken window or an opportunely splintered railing. The psychopath was harder to kill than Rasputin. In fact, in this film titled *La asistenta* (The Assistant), as soon as I saw the staircase, I told myself, “Here, the villain is going to take a deadly fall.”
*La asistenta* follows this formula, lazily updated with very trendy details: the men on screen (except for an Italian gardener, who certainly stands out) are dominant, rapacious, and torturous pigs. It’s baffling that the parole officer isn’t also male, demanding sexual favors from the former convict in exchange for not sending her back to prison. The women in the cast (the genuinely significant ones, not the parodic high-society snobs) are fighters against injustice—smart, plucky, empowered, and resourceful survivors in a hostile world full of men best approached with distrust.
The premise of the spectacular house you must clean is another old trick, much cheaper than what will ultimately break in that house.
The film doesn’t delve deep; it seeks complicity and enjoyment from an already devoted female audience. The surprises are predictable, especially if you’re over thirty or have seen a smattering of American films from previous decades. And the script’s excesses—implausibilities, liberties taken, easy fixes, effects, and loose ends—pile up alongside the entertaining and visually stimulating aspects of the spectacle. To illustrate with a couple of examples: the mummy-like mother could merely be portrayed as an oil painting (almost better), and the sassy only child contributes absolutely nothing after illustrating the difficult breastfeeding journey of a single working mother.
Nonetheless, the self-satisfaction of the protagonists easily transfers to the theater seats. It’s ideal for the more radical wing of the female audience, who, fact of being women, label men as guilty of dribbling malice, to go watch the film. If not, don’t worry; it will soon arrive on Netflix, its natural habitat.
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