The latest production of The Maids at the Donmar Warehouse is a sharp, deliberately off-kilter take on Genet’s psychological drama, but its strangeness and relentless pacing make it feel uneven and, at points, a little dull. Directed and newly adapted by Kip Williams, and starring Lydia Wilson, Phia Saban and Yerin Ha, it interrogates power, identity and performance with real precision, though often at the expense of emotional weight.
You watch sisters Claire (Lydia Wilson) and Solange (Phia Saban), maids to the glamorous and erratic Madame (Yerin Ha), kill time in her absence by acting out increasingly warped fantasies of rebellion and murder. Early scenes, Claire in luxe lingerie, mocking Solange for “hand-herpes”, establish the heightened tone. Later, the sisters film each other on their phones, adopting grotesque filters as the mirrored wardrobe reveals a distorted imitation-world. After Madame arrives, the rhythm becomes more frenetic and the video projections multiply, but the constant sensory churn occasionally dulls the impact. Williams keeps the core arc intact: the sisters’ performance consumes their real lives until collapse. His major update is making Madame an influencer figure obsessed with digital validation.
Wilson’s Claire switches between dominance and fragility with sharp physical shifts, clarifying her brittle edge. Saban gives Solange a tense, cramped energy, her cleaning-glove movements signalling servitude even as she poses as a rebel. Ha’s Madame lands as a calibrated spectacle of narcissism, vape clouds, elastic laughter, abrupt stomps, but her scenes can overstay their welcome, tilting from pointed satire into repetition. The performances are committed, though the overall effect sometimes becomes exhausting rather than involving.
Williams draws a clear line between social-media performance and the erosion of private identity. The sisters’ filters, projections and curated images underline this theme, and the moment when Claire’s video feed crashes briefly exposes something raw. Yet the production’s constant whir of psychodrama limits space for the sisters’ history or bond to register. The result leans more towards visual assault than emotional immersion.
Visually, the show is ambitious. Rosanna Vize’s mirrored set and gauze curtains turn the audience into voyeurs. The reveal of the boudoir is striking. Marg Horwell’s costumes merge gloss and drudgery, and Jon Clark’s cold-white and neon-pink lighting reinforces the digital aesthetic. Zakk Hein’s sound and live video distortions effectively show identity fragmentation, but the barrage of imagery frequently overwhelms the characters rather than deepening them.
The production reframes Genet’s class dynamics through the lens of influencers and parasocial desire. The sisters’ urge to imitate and destroy Madame aligns with contemporary cycles of idolisation and cancellation. The thematic intent is clear, but the delivery is so fast and stylised that the underlying emotional rot gets lost.
The Maids is intriguing, clever in places, but too erratic and too rushed to fully satisfy.
