What if a Victorian-era governess was also a serial killer? That’s the eerie premise of Victorian Psycho, a film that blends the grotesque with the whimsical in a way that feels both anachronistic and refreshingly modern. At its core, this is a story about the absurdity of power, the fragility of social norms, and the unsettling allure of madness. Maika Monroe’s performance as Winifred Notty is the film’s heartbeat—a character who is as unsettling as she is charismatic, embodying the tension between charm and chaos. Personally, I think Monroe’s portrayal is a masterclass in doubling down on the weird, making her a figure who is both pitiable and horrifying, a paradox that makes her impossible to look away from.
The film’s setting is its greatest asset. Set in 1858, it’s a time when the rigid hierarchies of the Victorian era are laid bare, and the Pounds, the aristocratic family at the center of the story, are a grotesque reflection of that society. Mr. Pound, played by Jason Isaacs, is a man whose veneer of civility crumbles under the weight of his cruelty. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the film uses the era’s aesthetic to amplify its dark humor. The opulent yet decaying estate of Ensor House feels like a stage set for a macabre play, and the dialogue—sharp, satirical, and often absurd—serves as a commentary on the absurdity of the period’s social conventions. This raises a deeper question: Why do we still find these archaic settings so ripe for horror? The answer, I think, lies in the way they allow us to project our own anxieties onto a world that feels both alien and familiar.
Monroe’s character is the film’s moral compass (or lack thereof). She’s not just a killer; she’s a psychological puzzle, a woman who sees the world in shades of gray and uses that to justify her actions. There’s a calculated elegance to her violence, a sense that she’s not just reacting to her environment but shaping it. What many people don’t realize is that this kind of character is rarely portrayed with such nuance. Winifred isn’t a monster in the traditional sense—she’s a product of her time, yet her actions defy the logic of any era. This duality is what makes her so compelling. It’s like watching a mirror held up to the 19th century, reflecting back a society that’s both quaint and deeply flawed.
The film’s direction by Zachary Wigon is a masterstroke. It’s not just a horror film; it’s a satire that leans into the absurd, using the Victorian aesthetic as a vehicle for dark comedy. The production design is meticulous, with period details that feel authentic but also slightly off-kilter, as if the film is poking fun at the very idea of historical accuracy. The score, by Ariel Marx, adds a haunting layer to the proceedings, blending the grandeur of the era with a dissonant edge that underscores the film’s thematic tension. If Merchant/Ivory had made a serial killer movie, it might have looked something like this—a blend of intellectualism and grotesquerie that challenges the viewer to reconcile the two.
The supporting cast is equally stellar. Isaacs and Ruth Wilson bring a level of gravitas to their roles that elevates the film beyond mere entertainment. Wilson’s portrayal of the wife, a woman whose cruelty is both chilling and absurd, is a standout. She’s not just a villain; she’s a character who embodies the toxic dynamics of power and control. Thomasin McKenzie, as the maid Winifred befriends, adds a layer of vulnerability that contrasts with the film’s overall tone. Her presence is a reminder that even in a world of madness, there’s room for humanity—and that’s what makes the film so effective.
Victorian Psycho is a film that thrives on contradiction. It’s a horror film that’s also a comedy, a period piece that’s also a modern satire, and a character study that’s also a thriller. Its success lies in its ability to balance these elements without ever feeling forced. What this really suggests is that the horror genre is far more versatile than it’s often given credit for. By blending the grotesque with the absurd, the film challenges the viewer to rethink what horror can be. In a world where the line between comedy and terror is increasingly blurred, Victorian Psycho is a reminder that the most memorable films are those that refuse to take themselves too seriously—and yet, somehow, still manage to unsettle you.
