Sister Midnight – an intoxicating production, pulsing with the rhythm of Mumbai’s bloodstream and the kinetic beat and buzz of metal bangles. It is full of verve, with an electrifying performance by Radhika Apte, who tilts the balance towards an experimental postmodern formula, climbing to heights of absurdity with her slapstick sequences.  

The directorial debut of Karan Kandhari, an Indian screenwriter and director based in London, takes you on a steamy nighttime journey through the streets of Mumbai, together with the main provocateur of all the hustle and bustle – Uma, who is as impulsive as she is eager for even a glimpse of life.   

The woman has come to the city for an arranged marriage to Gopal – her first, socially awkward, childhood love. However, they step into a new chapter of their lives without instructions on how to operate romantic relationships and light a home fire – only steaming at each other (-You used to be so sensitive! – I was eight years old then, we saw each other twice in our lives!). The sequences of the newlyweds lapping each other up like crispy samosas are among the most building comedy of absurdity and confusion in the film. From the consummation of the relationship through a quick handshake via the infallible neighbor’s tutorial on the recipe for love (Men are dark – give a chili and salt for such and he’ll eat anything. Cut vegetables into big chunks and he’ll think he’s eaten. I learned the basics the rest you must make up). 

Failing in her role as a housewife and craving both a respite from the suffocating barracks of her apartment and her relationships, she seeks a space (and a job) outside the domestic routine and the social oppression of the framework into which she neither thinks to fit.  

But soon Uma’s unsatisfied, multifaceted hunger takes a disturbingly literal form, leading to inexplicable and unnatural appetites. The film begins to literally “bleed” us, deftly mixing the registers of genre cinema, horror, and good-for-her movies. Sprinkled with a touch of surrealism, this genre descent into personal mayhem takes advantage of the absurdity of deadpan comedy and blends it with creature feature horror. 

Kandhari extremely aptly refers to the concept of the monstrous woman put forth by Barbara Creed – the protagonist becomes increasingly unpredictable, but clearly healthier after giving in to her most authentic impulses. 

Liberating herself from the shackle of patriarchal inscription into the role of a subordinate woman, she presents the heroine as an emancipated individual on the path of self-discovery.  

For it is the real heart pumping all this bloodstream is the figure of the phenomenal Apte herself, who as Uma plays an eccentrically unpredictable character. Her transformation into a bloodthirsty creature is not full of seduction and mystery, as it usually is in cinema – rather, it’s an entertaining tale of survival, practicality, and personal curiosity.  

Each time Uma sits or stands silently in the center of the frame (and the “standing and looking” sequences – not imitable!) she ponders before suddenly moving into action – whether stealing a forest of flowerpots or watching a stray goat on the street. At every moment, Apte presents the same unchanging gaze and primal concentration, then moves into action without hesitation as he reaches his boiling point. 

Together, Kandhari and Apte create in the character of Uma a wonderful final girl heroine full of pendulous humor. The myth of the domestic goddess and matron of the hearth is completely subverted here, with the home acting as a source of dissonance instead of peace and stability. Apte’s petite figure conceals a tremendous amount of frustration, conveyed with wide-open eyes, increasingly exasperated sighs and with a seemingly poised voice – contrasting and accentuating her body and manner of speaking. Uma expresses her needs and desires directly – both the mundane ones and her fantasies of a world without men, shared with her girlfriends with boldness and gushing rage. Though terrified by the nights she can’t remember and the changes in her body, she doesn’t wallow in fear or denial – rather, she accepts the situation and adapts, balancing between confusion and pragmatism. Uma’s entire journey in Sister Midnight is worth experiencing, and Apte’s performance is one of the main reasons to reach for this film. 

Following its premiere in the “Directors’ Fortnight” section at the 2024 Cannes Film Festival and screenings in Dublin and London, among others, the film’s wide distribution gives another excellent female horror story a chance to reach a wide audience. Sister Midnight seems to constitute a production complete in its postmodern bent. Playing with genre conventions and mixing styles and registers, it thus provides a maddening postmodern feast (with a hint of chili!). For people who are trying to find a way to explore their desires without the risk of a mob with pitchforks knocking on their door. 

Karolina Zdunek