New England Premiere

Listen up: Sister Midnight marks a feral and ferocious debut from writer/director Karan Kandhari. Imagine Repulsion with a metal playlist, or The Housemaid by way of Iggy Pop—Kandhari drags us through the claustrophobic hellscape of newlywed domesticity, only to douse it in jet-black humor, blood, and a healthy dose of existential dread.

Uma (a spectacularly unhinged Radhika Apte) is a bride fresh off the train to Mumbai, stuck in a one-room flat with her soft-spoken husband Gopal (Ashok Pathak)—acquired via arranged marriage—and a future that smells suspiciously like boiled lentils and regret. She’s got no interest in playing the dutiful wife, nor in cracking the impossible code of household chores, much to the bemusement of her happily married neighbor-turned–matrimonial-guru Sheetal (wit and wry perfected by Chhaya Kadam). Instead, Uma ventures out into the teeming city, teetering between disillusionment and self-discovery, when she develops an unusual appetite. From there, things spiral—mysterious ailments, stop-motion hallucinations, and a growing, gnawing hunger that no amount of neighborly gossip can sate.

Kandhari weaves together deadpan physical comedy, a seething feminist undercurrent, and a visual style that flirts with surrealism but never fully surrenders to it. The film’s deliberate rhythm—part mechanical, part manic—lulls us into a hypnotic state before jolting us with bursts of violent, gut-punching absurdity. It’s Wes Anderson with a knife, Jim Jarmusch on a Mumbai local, a movie that grins as it gnashes its teeth.

With Sister Midnight, Kandhari delivers a razor-sharp, genre-fluid anti-fairy tale, as disarmingly funny as it is deeply unsettling—this is an India you’ve never seen on screen. Interpol’s frontman Paul Banks debuts here as a first-time film composer, elevating this picture’s soundtrack to a litany of epic bangers, from T.Rex to Motörhead. Apte’s performance is a masterclass in controlled chaos, shifting from listless apathy to full-blown psychosis with eerie precision. A horror-tinged, punk-fueled, and utterly unpredictable ride—best experienced with no warnings, no expectations, and maybe, just maybe, a mop nearby.

– Nicole McControversy

Brattle Passes not accepted.