All Her Fault

The Architecture of Panic

There is a specific, suffocating silence that follows the realization that the world is no longer safe. In the opening moments of *All Her Fault*, creator Megan Gallagher and director Minkie Spiro capture this silence with terrifying precision. When Marissa Irvine (Sarah Snook) arrives at a stranger’s door to pick up her son from a playdate—only to be told the boy isn't there, and the woman has never heard of him—the horror isn't in the scream. It is in the pause. It is the moment a "perfect" life fractures into a nightmare. As a limited series, *All Her Fault* operates less as a procedural whodunit and more as a forensic examination of modern maternal anxiety, where the crime is merely the catalyst for a much darker social autopsy.

Visually, the series is fascinatingly deceptive. Though set in the affluent suburbs of Chicago, the production was filmed largely in Melbourne, utilizing virtual production technology to create a sense of place. This displacement works in the narrative’s favor; the world of the Irvines feels hermetically sealed, a glossy, blue-gray purgatory of high-end kitchens and manicured lawns that feels just slightly *off*—too clean, too cold, too quiet. The camera lingers on the architecture of wealth, emphasizing how these fortress-like homes, designed to keep danger out, ultimately serve to trap the secrets within. This antiseptic visual language contrasts sharply with the messy, primal panic that begins to consume Marissa.

At the center of this storm is Sarah Snook, who proves once again that she is one of the most formidable actors working today. While audiences may struggle to separate her from *Succession*’s Shiv Roy, Snook sheds that armor here, replacing Shiv’s cynicism with a raw, exposed nerve of grief. Yet, she refuses to play the victim as a saint. Her Marissa is prickly, judgment-prone, and deeply flawed. The series shines brightest when it pairs Snook against Dakota Fanning’s Jenny, a fellow mother whose frantic energy creates a different kind of tension. Their scenes together are electric, not just because of the plot mechanics, but because they expose the silent competition and judgment that pervade modern parenting.

The series is most poignant when it interrogates the title itself: *All Her Fault*. The narrative relentlessly exposes how quickly society—and the characters themselves—pivot to blaming the mother. Did she check the text? Did she vet the nanny? Was she too focused on her career? The mystery of Milo’s disappearance is compelling, but the true horror is the speed with which Marissa’s community cannibalizes her reputation.

If the series stumbles, it is in its final act. In an effort to deliver the requisite genre thrills, the script leans into a labyrinthine plot twist involving switched identities and past traumas that feels tonally disjointed from the grounded emotional work of the early episodes. The "gotcha" mechanics of the finale threaten to undermine the psychological realism Snook has so carefully built.

Ultimately, *All Her Fault* succeeds not because of its puzzle-box mystery, but in spite of it. It is a gripping, often uncomfortable mirror held up to the impossible standards of parenthood. It suggests that while a kidnapping is a rare tragedy, the fear of failing our children—and the certainty that it will be considered our fault—is a universal condition.