At first glance, Sister Midnight, Karan Kandhari’s debut feature that blends dark humor with unsettling undertones, feels like a still life of a marriage stuck in limbo. We meet Uma, a newlywed played by Radhika Apte, slumped and sulking in a cramped Mumbai chawl, weighed down by the dullness and expectations of her new life. The camera lingers quietly, almost motionless, as she drifts through her tiny one-room home, her gaze fixed on the endless sameness of her surroundings. For a while, the film just simmers in this slow, tedious rhythm of domestic monotony.
But Kandhari’s clever move is to use that very banality as a trap. Beneath the surface of this grim sitcom and its precise, Wes Anderson-esque framing, something far stranger unfolds. Uma stumbles upon a goat, dead birds begin to pile up, yet her fever eases. Starting off as a resentful wife, she slowly begins to transform into something else entirely.
Kandhari, an Indian filmmaker based in London, brings a diasporic lens to Mumbai—intimate yet dreamlike. The chawl feels alive with gossiping neighbors and open windows, a space both claustrophobic and buzzing with a quiet menace. Cinematographer Sverre Sordal lights these cramped alleys like surreal dreamscapes, mixing dull fluorescent interiors with deep, noirish shadows that leave everything feeling just a little off-kilter.
Much of the film rests on Apte’s performance, and she carries that weight with a fierce grace, as if hauling centuries of unspoken frustration. Uma’s every movement — the sulking, spitting, stomping, and simmering anger — is charged. Her sharp words feel like acts of rebellion, and even her silences are loaded with meaning. The story gives little exposition, but through Apte’s nuanced portrayal and Kandhari’s direction, we understand everything—from the tense, hostage-like wedding night to the gentle refusals of her quiet husband to any closeness.
The tone shifts gradually. The first half feels like absurdist kitchen-sink drama, but the second half takes on a fable-like, almost mythic quality. Kandhari doesn’t make this transition seamless, but it feels earned and deliberate. The chaotic figure Uma becomes a symbol of Kali, India’s fierce goddess, hinted at through color, gestures, and rituals. Her face even glows blue at a key moment, with a character slyly noting she’s “looking a bit more Kali today”—a line that lands perfectly.
The film is sprinkled with quirky moments—a Kurosawa film playing on a TV in a teahouse, a group of warm-hearted trans women offering tea and comfort, and a solemn elevator operator who seems like Uma’s only emotional equal. Kandhari doesn’t always neatly weave these threads together, but that messiness is part of the film’s charm. It’s a world stitched from the odd fragments of society.
His playful nods to vampire mythology are especially fun and provocative. With its sharp edits, bold music choices, and expressionistic lighting, the film channels a wild, punk spirit reminiscent of Jim Jarmusch, using the undead as a metaphor for a woman’s unbreakable fury. Yet, the film sometimes struggles to hold its tone. By the hour mark, the slapstick jump cuts, whip pans, and sound jokes begin to feel mechanical, and the tight visual symmetry sometimes feels like a cage, making the story’s cries feel trapped.
Sister Midnight isn’t a polished or consistent film, but it pulses with energy, especially in how it uses discomfort as a weapon and reclaims the “neglected housewife” trope in a folkloric way. Kandhari occasionally overflows with ideas, not all of which land, but there’s no denying his unique vision and wicked sense of humor shine through.
