There’s a special kind of suffering reserved for people who wander into a film like Saint Maud expecting horror and walk out feeling like they’ve been exorcised by an art school thesis. Directed by Rose Glass and hailed by critics as a “slow-burn masterpiece,” this 2019 exercise in misery masquerading as meaning is what happens when a first-time filmmaker marries religious trauma to body horror and forgets to invite the audience to care.
Let’s start with Maud herself. Our lead is a repressed, God-fearing nurse who looks like a sleep-deprived wood sprite and speaks in whispers like she’s been possessed by a particularly polite Victorian ghost. She’s recently found Jesus, and by “found,” I mean she’s practically French-kissing Him with every internal monologue. She’s also got a backstory — something about a tragic mistake during her prior job that made her toss aside her past identity like a dead goldfish. Now she’s Maud, Savior of Souls and She Who Watches Old Women Die Gracefully.
Enter Amanda, a terminally ill former dancer played by Jennifer Ehle, who looks like she escaped from a Tennessee Williams play and wandered into The Exorcist. She’s rich, bitter, and allergic to Maud’s pious energy. You’d think this clash of personalities would generate tension, fireworks, or at least a decent argument. But no. The relationship between Maud and Amanda simmers in the way lukewarm soup simmers: without urgency, flavor, or a goddamn point.
Maud becomes obsessed with saving Amanda’s soul, because, well, that’s what sad, lonely movie Christians do when they’re trying to distract themselves from their own crumbling grip on reality. At first, Maud’s holy mission involves gentle proselytizing, sad glances at religious pamphlets, and long stares into mirrors like she’s waiting for Jesus to blink back. But soon it spirals into self-flagellation, divine delusions, and one of the most underwhelming spiritual meltdowns ever committed to film.
The problem with Saint Maud is that it doesn’t so much build tension as much as it quietly threatens to do so. Every scene feels like a rehearsal for a movie that might one day be compelling. We sit through endless moments of Maud walking down rainy streets, whispering to herself, or clutching a crucifix like it owes her money. There’s a whole subplot involving a sexual misadventure in a bar, which is meant to underscore her unraveling faith but plays more like a deleted scene from Euphoria’s least interesting episode.
By the time Maud begins hearing the voice of God — which, for some reason, sounds like Barry White gargling tar — the film has devolved into a dour parade of stigmata cosplay and mental illness misrepresented as martyrdom. She believes she’s experiencing divine ecstasy; we believe she’s one hallucination away from putting on a tinfoil hat and predicting the Rapture at a bus stop.
Let’s talk scares, because Saint Maud is billed as psychological horror. And it is — if your idea of horror is watching a woman stare at a ceiling fan while sad music plays. The film mistakes quietness for dread and solemnity for suspense. A cockroach crawling across the wall gets more screen time than Maud’s actual psychological breakdown. When the jump scares arrive — all two of them — they feel like charity donations from a better movie.
And then there’s the ending. Oh, God, the ending. Without spoiling it (but also spoiling it, because mercy is a virtue), Maud’s holy journey ends in one of the most absurdly pretentious “mic-drop” moments ever filmed. She dons a bedsheet like a divine superhero, marches to the beach with the conviction of a woman headed to a Very Important Pinterest baptism, and… well, self-immolates. In public. While imagining angel wings erupting from her back like a deranged swan dive into salvation. The final shot cuts from divine ecstasy to screaming, burning agony in a way that practically begs for applause — or a drink.
Here’s the thing: religious horror can be effective. Films like The Exorcist or Rosemary’s Baby know how to weave faith and fear into something chilling. But Saint Maud is too busy genuflecting to its own atmosphere to build any actual terror. It wants you to feel haunted, but all you really feel is gaslit by a movie that insists its vague pacing and gray-on-gray color scheme are the height of artistic expression.
Performance-wise, Morfydd Clark does a decent job playing a character written with the depth of a hymnal footnote. She twitches and trembles on cue. She whispers with conviction. She makes Maud’s descent into madness at least visually tolerable, but she’s shackled to a script that confuses quiet desperation for profound insight. Jennifer Ehle, to her credit, chews the scenery like it’s communion bread soaked in bourbon, injecting the film with its only hint of warmth.
But that’s the tragedy of Saint Maud. It hints at being something greater — a psychological case study, a commentary on loneliness, a feminist riff on martyrdom — but it’s all window dressing for a movie that doesn’t know what it wants to say, let alone how to say it. It’s not scary, it’s not moving, and it’s not particularly intelligent. It’s just sad. Not “tragic heroine” sad. More like “are we really still watching this?” sad.
Final Verdict:
Saint Maud is the cinematic equivalent of going to confession for sins you didn’t commit, then getting punished anyway. It’s cold, slow, and smug in its symbolism. It wants to convert you, but doesn’t know into what. Skip it, unless you enjoy watching lonely people hallucinate themselves into human candles. Faith might move mountains, but this film barely moves at all. Amen.
