The Hunting Wives Review

I just binged The Hunting Wives and holy hell, it’s fucked up in all the right ways. Murder mystery meets bored housewives, but not in a cute Hallmark way—it’s bourbon, bullets, and women with too much money and not enough hobbies. From episode one, you don’t know if you’re watching an orgy invite, a cult initiation, or the pregame for a really fancy cannibal potluck.

That’s the ride—you’re never on steady ground. Sex? Maybe. Sirens luring men to their deaths? Wouldn’t rule it out. Someone disappearing into the woods with a shovel? Absolutely possible. Once you sink into that uncomfortable vibe, you stop fighting it and just let the show drag you down into the mess.

Normally, I’m the one who ruins mysteries by calling the killer in episode one. I’ll clock the motive, the weapon, and the whole cover-up before the credits even roll. But this one? Had me spinning. I’d think I nailed it, then they’d twist it just enough to shake me off. For once, I wasn’t sure until the very end—and that’s rare as hell.

It’s not prestige TV. Nobody’s winning awards here. But it is absolutely entertaining—horny, chaotic, and dangerous in a way that makes you keep pressing “next episode” even when you know you should probably go to bed. The nails, the skeet shooting, the sheer level of “ma’am, are you okay?” energy—this is suburban rot served on a silver platter.

Verdict: Disturbed, delighted, and a little too invested. Season 2 better show up fast, because apparently my toxic trait is cheering for hot bored housewives with a body count.