David Duchovny and Jack Whitehall Stir Streaming Drama in Prime Video’s ‘Malice’

Max Sterling, 11/16/2025David Duchovny and Jack Whitehall star in Prime Video's "Malice," a thriller that's capturing audiences despite mixed reviews. Explore the tension of a Grecian family's vacation turned nightmare, where sociopathic antics reign. Will the chaos of modern streaming triumph over critical disdain?

Surging onto Prime’s Top 10 list, "Malice" should be easy to spot—just look for the only title drawing more divisive reactions than this year’s surprise Super Bowl ad. Achieving No. 9 in the U.S. and even No. 8 worldwide, its audience numbers would suggest runaway success. Critics... not so much. A distressingly low 46% on Rotten Tomatoes practically cackles at the notion of prestige, but viewers, ever the thrill-seekers, seem unfazed by such metrics. Numbers now talk louder than bylines—if a show’s hot, everyone’s at least touching the pan.

Plot-wise, it’s a genre parade with Duchovny steering the ship as Jamie Tanner, the sort of patriarch whose pre-crisis problems involve whether to sip espresso in Santorini or Mykonos this year. The illusion shatters once Adan (Jack Whitehall in a gleefully sinister detour from his comedy roots) arrives. Whitehall nimbly tiptoes between eccentric and unhinged—a sociopath whose penchant for domestic sabotage radiates more pleasure than malice, ironically. Critics have not been generous. M.N. Miller at Fandomwire reduces the show to "a thriller devoid of tension and suspense," while The Independent’s Patrick Smith seems more fixated on the script’s creaky scaffolding than any genuine sense of threat. Expositional dialogue and improbable turns abound, he complains, as if the show’s soufflé is forever collapsing in the oven.

Yet something unusual is at play: people are devouring it anyway. It’s as if the nagging dialogue is less a flaw and more a comforting tick—perhaps a sign that, sometimes, people seek familiarity above innovation. Martin Carr’s piece in CBR reveals the show’s softer underbelly: plenty of solid performances, Whitehall’s first official leap into shadowy territory, and a supporting cast that, while occasionally underused, provides a good foil. Nobody’s confusing this with a lost Criterion gem, sure—but, as the streaming world keeps reminding everyone, the algorithm craves what the heart wants.

Curiously, Whitehall himself appears downright pleased with the hullabaloo. When asked about feedback on his character’s inert passport-tossing scene, he reported that his American agent was more aghast over bureaucratic inconvenience than onscreen homicide. "Your passport? That’s a nightmare!" the agent fretted, apparently unfazed by Whitehall’s casual murder. In 2025, losing one’s identity document halfway across Europe is, evidently, scarier than murder. Bureaucracy always the silent killer.

Switching over to what remains of the cinematic wilderness—the box office, still alive despite predictions to the contrary—Osgood Perkins’s "Keeper" has started to flicker in the dark, attracting wary cinephiles like moths to an LED porch lamp. Folk horror, with its slow-burn dread and ambiguous lantern-lit trailers, is having another mini-moment. "Keeper," featuring Tatiana Maslany (who has genuinely become the genre’s multitool), puts marital bliss directly on a collision course with eldritch terror at an isolated cabin. Perkins—whose resume has ballooned in 2025 with "Longlegs" and a Stephen King project—prefers mood to gore, making "Keeper" less about blood and guts and more an exercise in anxiety you can’t quite explain.

Of course, festival buzz is already humming, even as the streaming crowd counts down the days until a Hulu release. The hype is tangible—a patchwork of Reddit threads and whispered warnings that "Keeper" is not to be spoiled. In a year when horror fans have been burned by too many tepid jump scares, this quiet, creeping approach comes off as refreshing, maybe even necessary.

But if existential dread isn’t on the weekend viewing menu, perhaps some reality television chaos will suffice. ITV’s "The 1% Club," hosted by Lee Mack, remains a gleeful celebration of arcane trivia and oddball contestants. Take Nathaniel, the eyelash collector—yes, you read that right. In a fleeting, wince-inducing moment, Nathaniel confessed to archiving his own lashes, prompting a look from Mack that said, “So this is what humanity’s become.” The crowd recoiled, Twitter imploded, and—a minor spoiler—Nathaniel sailed nearly to the finals, lifeline unused. A truly viral anecdote, the kind that doubles as an icebreaker or a cautionary tale, depending on one’s persuasion.

What stands out on "The 1% Club" isn’t the cash prize, but the will-they-won’t-they of social interaction: every week offers a new contestant whose peculiarities rewrite what passes for televised entertainment. Underneath the quizzes lurks the suggestion that the line between cleverness and oddity is slender, perhaps best measured in the width of a single eyelash.

Zooming out, the current entertainment moment reads like a patchwork quilt stitched together with unpredictability and a mild disregard for consensus. Revenge thrillers shunned by critics still rack up views. Atmospheric horror films build anticipation the 2010s would have envied. Game shows edge closer to performance art with each passing oddball contestant. It’s enough to suggest that, in 2025, those shaping pop culture have collectively decided that the unpredictable—the scene, the twist, the water-cooler moment—matters more than polish or legacy.

Passport trauma, sociopathic houseguests, eyelash-collecting prodigies—these are the stories sticking with audiences long after the streaming numbers roll over. The critics continue to pontificate, but raw viewing data shouts over their heads. In the end, people decide: sometimes, a little chaos is exactly the point. And besides, who doesn’t have a strange little collection tucked away somewhere?

The sight of David Duchovny—a former denizen of shadowy government halls—playing family patriarch on a Grecian holiday gone haywire is, perhaps, the definition of cognitive dissonance. Yet in "Malice," now grabbing streams by the bucketful on Prime Video, Duchovny presides over domestic bliss interrupted by a sociopath whose idea of recreation is waging psychological guerrilla warfare. If art is a mirror, this one is best left under a beach towel, the kind guests politely ignore until curiosity gets the better of them. Alas, weirdness waits patiently.Surging onto Prime’s Top 10 list, "Malice" should be easy to spot—just look for the only title drawing more divisive reactions than this year’s surprise Super Bowl ad. Achieving No. 9 in the U.S. and even No. 8 worldwide, its audience numbers would suggest runaway success. Critics... not so much. A distressingly low 46% on Rotten Tomatoes practically cackles at the notion of prestige, but viewers, ever the thrill-seekers, seem unfazed by such metrics. Numbers now talk louder than bylines—if a show’s hot, everyone’s at least touching the pan.Plot-wise, it’s a genre parade with Duchovny steering the ship as Jamie Tanner, the sort of patriarch whose pre-crisis problems involve whether to sip espresso in Santorini or Mykonos this year. The illusion shatters once Adan (Jack Whitehall in a gleefully sinister detour from his comedy roots) arrives. Whitehall nimbly tiptoes between eccentric and unhinged—a sociopath whose penchant for domestic sabotage radiates more pleasure than malice, ironically. Critics have not been generous. M.N. Miller at Fandomwire reduces the show to "a thriller devoid of tension and suspense," while The Independent’s Patrick Smith seems more fixated on the script’s creaky scaffolding than any genuine sense of threat. Expositional dialogue and improbable turns abound, he complains, as if the show’s soufflé is forever collapsing in the oven.Yet something unusual is at play: people are devouring it anyway. It’s as if the nagging dialogue is less a flaw and more a comforting tick—perhaps a sign that, sometimes, people seek familiarity above innovation. Martin Carr’s piece in CBR reveals the show’s softer underbelly: plenty of solid performances, Whitehall’s first official leap into shadowy territory, and a supporting cast that, while occasionally underused, provides a good foil. Nobody’s confusing this with a lost Criterion gem, sure—but, as the streaming world keeps reminding everyone, the algorithm craves what the heart wants.Curiously, Whitehall himself appears downright pleased with the hullabaloo. When asked about feedback on his character’s inert passport-tossing scene, he reported that his American agent was more aghast over bureaucratic inconvenience than onscreen homicide. "Your passport? That’s a nightmare!" the agent fretted, apparently unfazed by Whitehall’s casual murder. In 2025, losing one’s identity document halfway across Europe is, evidently, scarier than murder. Bureaucracy always the silent killer.Switching over to what remains of the cinematic wilderness—the box office, still alive despite predictions to the contrary—Osgood Perkins’s "Keeper" has started to flicker in the dark, attracting wary cinephiles like moths to an LED porch lamp. Folk horror, with its slow-burn dread and ambiguous lantern-lit trailers, is having another mini-moment. "Keeper," featuring Tatiana Maslany (who has genuinely become the genre’s multitool), puts marital bliss directly on a collision course with eldritch terror at an isolated cabin. Perkins—whose resume has ballooned in 2025 with "Longlegs" and a Stephen King project—prefers mood to gore, making "Keeper" less about blood and guts and more an exercise in anxiety you can’t quite explain.Of course, festival buzz is already humming, even as the streaming crowd counts down the days until a Hulu release. The hype is tangible—a patchwork of Reddit threads and whispered warnings that "Keeper" is not to be spoiled. In a year when horror fans have been burned by too many tepid jump scares, this quiet, creeping approach comes off as refreshing, maybe even necessary.But if existential dread isn’t on the weekend viewing menu, perhaps some reality television chaos will suffice. ITV’s "The 1% Club," hosted by Lee Mack, remains a gleeful celebration of arcane trivia and oddball contestants. Take Nathaniel, the eyelash collector—yes, you read that right. In a fleeting, wince-inducing moment, Nathaniel confessed to archiving his own lashes, prompting a look from Mack that said, “So this is what humanity’s become.” The crowd recoiled, Twitter imploded, and—a minor spoiler—Nathaniel sailed nearly to the finals, lifeline unused. A truly viral anecdote, the kind that doubles as an icebreaker or a cautionary tale, depending on one’s persuasion.What stands out on "The 1% Club" isn’t the cash prize, but the will-they-won’t-they of social interaction: every week offers a new contestant whose peculiarities rewrite what passes for televised entertainment. Underneath the quizzes lurks the suggestion that the line between cleverness and oddity is slender, perhaps best measured in the width of a single eyelash.Zooming out, the current entertainment moment reads like a patchwork quilt stitched together with unpredictability and a mild disregard for consensus. Revenge thrillers shunned by critics still rack up views. Atmospheric horror films build anticipation the 2010s would have envied. Game shows edge closer to performance art with each passing oddball contestant. It’s enough to suggest that, in 2025, those shaping pop culture have collectively decided that the unpredictable—the scene, the twist, the water-cooler moment—matters more than polish or legacy.Passport trauma, sociopathic houseguests, eyelash-collecting prodigies—these are the stories sticking with audiences long after the streaming numbers roll over. The critics continue to pontificate, but raw viewing data shouts over their heads. In the end, people decide: sometimes, a little chaos is exactly the point. And besides, who doesn’t have a strange little collection tucked away somewhere?