Salvation is a lonely road… especially when it leads to madness.
Saint Maud is not merely a psychological horror film — it is a descent into one woman’s crumbling mind, filmed with unnerving stillness and spiritual dread. In her stunning directorial debut, Rose Glass crafts a haunting portrait of religious obsession, loneliness, and the twisted salvation one soul seeks in the silence of God.
Maud (played with chilling fragility by Morfydd Clark) is a newly devout hospice nurse tasked with caring for Amanda, a once-glamorous dancer now dying of cancer. Amanda is worldly, sensual, and cynical — everything Maud believes she must save. But as Maud’s spiritual devotion sharpens into fanaticism, her version of God becomes not a source of peace, but a voice of righteous terror inside her own mind.
We watch as Maud drifts from reality, her prayers growing darker, her visions more violent. Her faith is sincere, but poisoned — a fragile ego masked as divine calling. The more Amanda resists her “salvation,” the more Maud spirals, believing herself a martyr in a war no one else can see. Her isolation is amplified by a world that neither mocks nor embraces her, but simply ignores her — until she makes herself impossible to ignore.
The film is an exquisite slow burn, building tension not through jump scares, but through creeping dread and the suffocating intimacy of Maud’s point of view. Every flickering candle, whispered prayer, and stifled breath tightens the vice until the final scene — a flash of horror so brief, so absolute, it sears into memory like a divine punishment.
Saint Maud asks us to consider the price of faith when belief becomes a weapon turned inward. It’s not about God. It’s about the void we fill when He doesn’t answer.
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