[Editor’s note: This review was originally published on May 21, 2026 during the 2026 Cannes Film Festival. Bleecker Street will release the film in theaters Friday, November 13.]
Winifred Notty is the sanest person she knows, or so the heroine (or anti-heroine, depending on how you might see it) of Zachary Wigon’s “Victorian Psycho” is quick to tell anyone who will listen. Or not, as star Maika Monroe delivers that damning and darkly funny insight into Winifred’s soul via a prim voiceover that seems to exist for her own benefit as much as the audience she seems to imagine.
That’s tangled enough, but there’s also this: Winifred doesn’t really know that many people, mostly because just about everyone she’s come across in her life is dead. Still, sane! Ish. Well, it’s not called “Victorian Psycho” for nothing.
Adapted for the screen by novelist Virginia Feito from her own work, the book comes recommended alongside its predecessor, “Mrs. March,” for anyone drawn to entertainment with “psycho” in the title.
Beloved scream queen Maika Monroe (“It Follows,” “The Guest,” “Longlegs”) may be switching sides here, offering a twist on who horror fans root for once the blood starts flowing. (Hint: it’s the psycho.)
When we first meet Winifred, the Victorian-era governess is bound for her next assignment to teach the children of Mr. and Mrs. Pounds (Jason Isaacs and a sneaky-great Ruth Wilson, respectively) at their sprawling Yorkshire estate. “This won’t be like the other times,” she tells herself, winking mightily at how all those other times turned out. Our Winifred sports dead eyes and a rictus grin she works so very hard to fix in place. It’s even better when she attempts to imitate those around her, all the better to approximate “being human.”
No question, there’s something very wrong with Winifred. But what? You’ll find out soon enough. Possessed of “a darkness” she cannot shake, Monroe’s Winifred practically vibrates with the need to hold things together. It does not always work for her, but it is nearly always funny, deliciously and dementedly so.
Wigon and Freito don’t balk at the “psycho” promise of their story, as Winifred happily whacks away (often literally) at everyone icky, from gardeners to nurses (Thomasin McKenzie) and, yes, at least one baby. Killing scenes are elegantly, amusingly cut by editors Dustin Chow and Lance Edmands and designed for maximum gasps. Blood flows, then spurts, then pools. Sometimes it gets on Winifred’s face or her collar. She moves on, grimly and happily.
Cinematographer Nico Aguilar brings a similar energy to his work, shooting in and through keyholes, swinging his camera like a clock pendulum, even briefly adapting the perspective of a swallowed (redacted, for spoilers) as it travels into Winifred’s belly. It’s playful and gross, wholly fitting the material. Mostly, it’s so dark and fucked up you can’t help but laugh. OH! Did they do that? Yes, yes they did.
Possessed by the notion that she’s meant to be a part of the Pounds family (who would want to be? these aristocrats are monstrous), Winifred continues to fray. Bloodlusty audiences will be charmed by her go-for-broke attitude (more like go-for-the-throat), plus a steady stream of visual cues as to her current state. Dreams and nightmares merge, she’s haunted by the Pounds’ family mascot of a wild boar (particularly in an ever-morphing tapestry), and she simply can’t stop sneaking into places to stare at people while they sleep.
Clocking in at a tight 90 minutes, some changes to the also-slim book are smart, while others dilute its darkest impulses. Gone is the countdown to a Christmas massacre, which frames the novel; hell, gone is the whole Christmas massacre. Freito’s script leads up to a different sort of celebration, doing away with many of the most colorful supporting characters in the process (Mrs. Fancey, we hardly knew ye!).
That choice isn’t disastrous, although the execution of the big! final! event! is oddly watered down. Here it’s imagined as a battle of Winifred’s wills… but, erm, what wills? The book and the film each offer enough reasons for why our heroine is the way she is, Wigon’s film oddly bisects her spirit by implying she’s not fully on board with all the evil she commits.
For fans of the novel and its wonderfully unrepentant star, this choice might rankle; it’s also odd that Freito would go this route with her own adaptation. “Well, that’s not my ‘Victorian Psycho’ — and she’s not. That’s such a shame because for much of the film, she’s even better. By tempering her impulses and inner monologue, the film ends with less of the giddy gore that makes the rest of it such a dark treat. Dare we say it? We would have loved for this one to go full, ahem, boar.
Grade: B
“Victorian Psycho” premiered at the 2026 Cannes Film Festival. Bleecker Street will release it in theaters on Friday, September 25.
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