Sister Midnight: A Critical Look at Slum Life and Female Anger
A Disappointing Portrayal of Struggles
To be frank, I found Sister Midnight to be quite unbearable. This film, which delves into the harsh realities of slum life, is heavily laced with disturbing surrealism. Radhika Apte, often a favorite among directors who admire strong female characters, plays a role that feels overly familiar.
I am weary of Ms. Apte's portrayal of a strong woman in distress, despite her commendable performance. There are many vulnerable women who also deserve representation, as highlighted by her fellow actresses Tillotama Shome and Amruta Subhash.
In Sister Midnight, Radhika Apte's character, Uma, is filled with rage, akin to a blocked drain. It wasn't until later in the film that I learned her name. For extended periods, the writer-director Karan Kandhari restricts dialogue, leaving the characters to dominate the narrative, often at bleak moments.
Although marketed as a dark comedy, I found no humor in Uma's nighttime escapades, which involve capturing rodents and storing them in her dilapidated home. Even during rare daylight scenes, Uma is consumed by anger, hyperventilating, and even vomiting in her cramped living space, where she hurls insults at her surprisingly tolerant husband, Gopal, portrayed as a one-dimensional character by Ashok Pathak.
Even when Gopal stumbles home intoxicated, he refrains from confronting his wife, who behaves like a trapped animal. What fuels Uma's fury? Is she a representation of the archetype of a woman rebelling against her fate? Perhaps Gopal should show less patience, as the audience grows restless with his enduring tolerance.
At one moment, Gopal expresses his confusion to Uma, saying, 'Sometimes I don’t understand you.'
This sentiment resonates with viewers. What is the source of Uma's rage? If it stems from her circumstances, it remains unclear. Her portrayal as a slum-dweller feels hollow and irritating. Kandhari offers no respite from Uma's relentless anger. The bond she shares with her neighbor, Sheetal, played by Chhaya Kadam, is superficial, limited to brief cooking lessons and trivial conversations.
The narrative becomes increasingly suffocating. Cinematographer Sverre Sørdal captures Uma as a wild creature, prowling and growling, but she lacks the intrigue or intimidation to engage the audience—she is simply exhausting.
Some nighttime scenes convey a sense of insincerity. The characters appear as indistinct figures. Who are the women on the streets who greet Uma with flirtatious remarks? Are they sex workers, eunuchs, or both? Kandhari shows little interest in exploring these characters, including Uma, who is depicted as a ferocious wolf without delving into her despair.
As the story unfolds, it grows darker and more grotesque, spewing negativity like a dragon. The soundtrack features a British baritone singing in English, which feels out of place amidst Uma's grim reality. Is this a nod to foreign audiences who might find the setting too overwhelming? If you wish to immerse yourself in a dismal experience, this film is for you.