Introduction

I was anxiously waiting in a virtual lobby, deep, soothing breaths punctuating my carefully rehearsed lines. The camera flicked on—suddenly, the interviewer’s greeting launched our meeting into motion.

This was not my first interview, nor was it my first virtual one either. It took place during my second week of pantang (confinement), the centuries-old Malay postpartum ritual that expects a new mother to rest and recover. 

When I became pregnant for the first time, I knew nothing could prepare me for the true realities of motherhood. Pregnancy books, Reddit forums, YouTube tutorials—I had consumed them all. 

In spite of this, I still found myself unprepared. The many late nights, the gargantuan to-do list necessary to keep a little human alive and the constant negotiations with my husband about who does what—my introduction to motherhood was challenging to say the least.

At the same time, I was still trying to signal to myself (and admittedly those around me) that I was still me: still ambitious and capable of having it all. Agreeing to a promotion interview two weeks postpartum was not just a career move but also an attempt to regain some sense of self.

But now, 3.5 years into my motherhood journey, I am finding the very notion of “having it all” just as extreme as having to choose between raising a family and a thriving career. 

Of #GirlBosses and #Tradwives

This desire to “have it all” is symptomatic of social media rendering everything, no matter the topic, as an over-the-top performance rather than an accurate depiction of reality. 

In this attention economy, motherhood – and to a larger extent portrayals of the modern woman – is reduced to a mere label that never takes into account the messy nuances of actual lived experience. 

Take, for example, the millennial concept of the “Girl Boss”. While the Girl Boss era is largely said to have seen its demise, there was a time many millennial women (myself included) sought to achieve this coveted status. It was an alluring ideal—who would not want to #slay in the corporate arena whilst building a seven-figure bank account and do so without relying on a man?

But while the Girl Boss’s selfies in Singapore Airlines first-class cabin are enviable, I cannot help but think of the hard reality of achieving this level of success and question the immense personal price tag that such a lifestyle affords.

On the flip side, the rise of the “tradwife” is said to be a direct counter to the “bossbabe” narrative. Where a bossbabe strives for the absolute pinnacle of her ambitions, a tradwife seemingly wants nothing more than to fulfil her husband’s wants and desires, take care of the home all whilst raising happy, healthy children.

Those that oppose this movement argue that it fetishizes a woman’s complete and total subservience to a man. However, a question then rises: If a woman, out of her own free will, willingly chooses to put her family’s needs above her own, why is this act deemed less empowering than if she were to pursue her ambitions outside the family home?

This again demonstrates how problematic such over-the-top social media performances of gender roles can be. 

Personally for me, while I do think there could be no occupation more noble than taking care of my family, I do not believe it can only come at the expense of my personal goals and dreams outside of being a wife and mother. 

I also feel that these largely Western ideas fall short within a Malaysian context, where family structures and domestic help are more common. While having such a robust support system in place certainly makes “having it all” more attainable, it does not make it any less challenging. 

Motherhood IRL

The prevalence of such extreme narratives on social media and the wider media in general has also impacted the perception of modern motherhood.

While there are many who strive to share a more balanced and normalized perspective, the dominating narrative to any discourse around motherhood – and parenting more broadly – seems to be overwhelmingly negative.

Current conversations often highlight the more challenging aspects of motherhood. Oftentimes, modern motherhood is depicted as an exhausting, thankless job whereby the mother in question derives absolutely no joy and is just miserable. 

While I do wonder if the current negative sentiment towards having kids is a direct result of the complex cultural climate we are living in, I cannot help but question my own role in perpetuating these negative stereotypes.

I think back to when I had just returned from maternity leave. I was chatting with a newly married colleague when she asked if she should have kids, to which I jokingly responded, “No, absolutely not”.

Having experienced motherhood for myself, however, I realized that the many challenges that come with raising a child is only half the picture. Though my household is a far cry from Maria Von Trapp and her kids, it is not all doom and gloom either. 

Permission to Pivot

I did not get that job promotion. Although I was disappointed, there was a part of me that felt immense relief. 

Perhaps it was because I had freed myself of the self-imposed expectation of having it all. But by not getting that promotion, it was as if I had given myself permission to take a back seat on my career and focus on raising my child instead. 

I was content with this slower pace and finding a rhythm that worked for me. But it was in these quiet moments that I gained the mental space to reassess and through introspection, a new ambition had quietly taken hold.

Witnessing the startling speed with which my daughter changed from a cute, squishy blob to a sassy strong-spirited toddler, I gained a completely new appreciation of time and just how quickly things change. 

This new perspective made me realize that although I still had ambitions to further my career, I simply did not want to miss out on my child growing up either. But this meant building something of my own, which was ironic seeing as how I had never harboured any entrepreneurial dreams before becoming a mother.

But it was not just the perceived flexibility that came with such endeavours, although that was certainly appealing. It was about creating something that could coexist and thrive with my newfound motherhood.

For the first time, I was not chasing some external definition of having it all. I was redefining what that actually meant for myself. 

Balance: Making it Make Sense (for Me)

Living in Kuala Lumpur, I have the good fortune of having family support and the capacity to hire paid help. While I do not take these luxuries for granted, there is still somewhat of a balancing act that is required. 

For me, this means navigating the ebb and flow of control, a response that is usually elicited by a well-meaning elder who insists on doing things their way. However, by the same token, being very conscious of not wanting to overburden my family, who are already giving so much of their time.

The other irony in all of this is that, even though having help relieves the physical load of childcare, it does not eliminate the emotional burden.

On days when I am cooped up in my study chasing a deadline and my daughter calls out from the other side wanting to play, the mom-guilt hits especially hard. I question whether in pursuing a future that will grow alongside my role as mother, I was missing out on the precious and fleeting moments of the present. 

But it is in grappling with these internal battles that I realized that having it all was not about seeking more help as I hustled harder: It was becoming more about prioritizing what truly mattered. For me, what truly matters is setting a good example for my daughter and showing that you could have it all –just not all at once. 

Final Thoughts

Three years from that interview, I am still learning to embrace motherhood in all its beautiful, messy glory. There are challenging days and there are days I feel so grateful to be the actual centre of my little person’s universe.

I used to think that having all the help and support meant I could push harder, do more, and be more. But what motherhood has so acutely crystallized is that the smaller wins each and every day count for something too.

But what is perhaps the greatest lesson I have learned since becoming a mother is that there really is no one-size-fits-all approach. Beyond the carefully curated extremes on social media, creating my own path forward is the most powerful example I can set for my daughter.

Society’s Fascination with Infidelity

Few themes grip the Indonesian audience like tales of infidelity. In a culture steeped in conservative values where “family comes first”, stories of spousal betrayal become both entertaining and, yet, rather unsettling.

Recently, adultery-themed films often draw inspiration from viral, supposedly real-life stories on social media platforms like TikTok, X and Facebook, feeding the public’s insatiable appetite for drama.

Indeed, roughly 60% of Indonesians enjoy infidelity dramas, possibly drawn by the mix of both their relatability – hitting too close to home – and utterly bizarre storylines. These films spark a whirlwind of reactions, from moral outrage and seething disdain for the villains to netizens candidly recounting their own experiences.

Following the success of Layangan Putus (The Broken Kite), an infidelity drama adapted from a viral Facebook post, Ipar adalah Maut (The In-law is Death) entered the scene in June 2024, with subsequent streaming on Netflix earlier this November.

When Family Lines Blur

Directed by Hanung Bramantyo, Ipar adalah Maut tells a story about the unraveling marriage of Aris (Deva Mahenra) and Nisa (Michelle Ziudith) following the former’s affair with the latter’s younger sister, Rani (Devina Karamoy). Based on a viral TikTok story, this film forces a reckon with familial boundaries in Indonesia, reigniting discussions on religion, morality and trust.

The film’s provocative title borrows from the Islamic hadith that discourages Muslims from spending time alone with non-mahram (a person with whom marriage is allowed), further warning the dangers of unchecked relationships between the in-laws.

At the start, the audience is introduced to Aris and Nisa’s seemingly perfect relationship. Aris is portrayed as a family man: a religious figure, a supportive husband and a present father. Finances do not seem to be an issue for the family. The couple and their daughter settle in a nice home, while Nisa is running a successful business.

Before long, Ipar adalah Maut pivots to its central conflict, a turning point when Nisa and Rani’s mother suggests that the younger sister, Rani, should move into the couple’s home.

The intention behind this arrangement seems benign: Rani needs a safe place to stay near her university, where, conveniently, Aris also teaches. The mother’s preference for Rani to stay with the couple and their willingness to take her in speak to the deeply rooted collectivist values that have shaped Indonesian family dynamics.

In one scene, Nisa hesitates over the arrangement but soon feels the sense of responsibility to care for her sister, even though Rani, as an adult, should ideally be independent. This scene shows the clash between collectivism and individualism, the dilemma between prioritizing one’s interests and fulfilling familial duties.

As the film progresses, the lines between nuclear and extended families blur, with the latter taking on familial responsibility. This stands in contrast to the current shift in the Indonesian family structure: Younger Indonesians are gradually moving away from an extended family to a nuclear one, a change influenced in part by modernization.

In the past, it was more common for Indonesians to live with or nearby their in-laws, creating a support system where family would be there when needed. Today, however, it has become increasingly common and socially acceptable for nuclear families to live independently, often away from their extended families.

Furthermore, religion also upholds collectivist values, with a strong emphasis on selflessness and altruism. In the film, Aris is initially portrayed as a religious character. His actions are driven by his sense of duty towards his family and God.

The audience’s first impression of Aris is built upon the common belief that a religious and responsible husband is not a cheater—that these qualities are mutually exclusive. Ironically, it is precisely these virtues that likely draw Rani to him, a picture-perfect husband she does not have but profoundly desires.

One of the ways religion may safeguard oneself from infidelity is by curbing behaviors that could lead to full-blown infidelity. In the aforementioned hadith, Islam sets clear marital boundaries to avoid temptation and “minor” transgressions, both of which could escalate into something more serious.

Here, the discrepancy between Indonesia’s collectivist values and the above hadith becomes clear. The movie’s married couple are caught between two principles.

On the one hand, their cultural leanings prioritize charity to family, i.e. helping Rani by offering her a place to stay. On the other hand, the hadith warns against such arrangements, implying they are forbidden. However, it is possible that the couple are unaware of the hadith before making that decision.

Just as the hadith warns, multiple scenes show that several boundaries were crossed long before the full-blown affair begins. For instance, Aris and Rani drive to the university together in the same car without Nisa. There are also moments when Aris and Rani are left alone in the house, further compromising the boundaries that the hadith seeks to protect.

The plot advances further when Aris intervenes to help Rani when she was being harassed by male students. This pivotal moment enables Rani’s feelings for Aris to intensify, shifting from innocent admiration to something more romantic and intense.

Why the Forbidden Beckons

There is a prevailing assumption that people in happy relationship are less likely to cheat. Nevertheless, that is no guarantee against infidelity. There are many explanations for this, including uncontrollable temptations, a lack of connection, or simply boredom.

Ipar adalah Maut does not explicitly explain but rather implies, as the pre-affair Aris’ character is too perfect to be true. We are left wondering what his flaws are or what hidden temptations he harbors. As the film unfolds, it becomes clear that he is addicted to this forbidden relationship.

Meanwhile, Rani has grown from a sweet child into an extremely attractive young woman, a visual that probably tempts Aris in the first place.

The setup is expected and familiar – Aris and Rani share a rather intimate moment late at night when Rani, typically modest and demure, is found without her hijab and with a more revealing outfit. It is a defining moment where a split-second attraction blossoms into a destructive force.

This brings us to the hypothetical realm: Could strict religious practice become the very thing that feeds the desire to break them? If Rani were a secular woman who is not a hijabi/covered in the first place, and if Aris were used to seeing her in more revealing outfits, would it reduce Aris’ curiosity and prevent any temptation from taking place?

This allure of forbidden love is proven to be hard to resist. Its allure can partially be explained by the psychological concept of “reactance”. It occurs when individuals experience discomfort as a consequence of perceived restrictions in their autonomy, subsequently attempting to restore their freedom by rebelling against those constraints. In Ipar adalah Maut, societal and cultural taboos could have heightened this forbidden attraction.

Deeper Betrayals and the Fallout

Guilt and shame, due to their religious beliefs, take root early in both Aris and Rani’s minds. Yet, the more guilt they feel, the stronger their reckless abandon attitude grows. Both of them may feel that they are too deep in their sins to turn back. Thus, they carry on with the affair. Unsurprisingly, they become reckless in keeping the secret too, with a few scenes highlighting Nisa’s suspicions.

This eventually becomes a tangled web of deceit as the cheaters craft an elaborate scheme to throw Nisa off. Here, Aris’ so-called selflessness reveals itself as nothing more than pure selfishness.

What is most unsettling is how normal this affair feels to the cheaters. Perhaps it is a strange sense of familiarity—spending time together and slipping into roles that slowly become more natural. In their minds, this very familiarity erodes any sense of abnormality and the taboos surrounding the affair.

But Aris and Rani’s plan to deceive Nisa is proven to be a very short-lasting one. As the affair unfolds, the consequences are swift.

To Nisa, this betrayal is a catastrophic disruption of her family and her world. She simultaneously loses a husband and a sister. After the affair is exposed, Nisa often finds herself trapped between personal pain and familial obligation to take care of her dying mother. Following Rani’s pregnancy reveal and their mother’s death, the film leaves the audience longing even for the slightest sense of justice for Nisa.

This lack of justice echoes the experiences of infidelity victims in Indonesia. Earlier this year, the public saw a shocking criminal case stemming from infidelity: After exposing her husband’s affair online, a married woman was reported to and arrested by the police. The complaint was filed by the woman with whom her husband was having an affair, accusing the wife of spreading false information under the controversial Electronic Information Law (UU ITE).

Reclaiming Power after Betrayal

On average, Indonesia sees around 400,000 divorce cases each year, with nearly a quarter attributed to infidelity.

Legally, Indonesia’s new law on adultery (articles 411 and 412 of the Penal Code) is set to take effect in 2026. It aims to protect infidelity victims by enabling immediate family members to file complaints against unfaithful spouses, with penalties including up to a year in prison or a fine of Rp10 million (US$600). Of course, many argue that this punishment is nothing compared to the deep emotional and mental trauma experienced by the victims.

Perhaps the closest thing to justice is in the court of public opinion, particularly on social media. The popularity of these stories might offer victims some semblance of justice that the legal system cannot provide.

In the context of family dynamics, social media serves as a space to renegotiate relationships and societal norms. Among women, this is often expressed through sympathy, support and solidarity in the face of betrayal.

As for Nisa, the ending offers a moment of catharsis. She moves forward by accepting reality, cutting ties with the toxic forces around her and focusing on what truly matters to her—her daughter’s happiness. Ultimately, Ipar adalah Maut takes on a deeply taboo subject and forces viewers to confront the hard truth that nothing is ever as secure as it seems. The message is clear: Do not take your relationship for granted, no matter how tight the bond may be.

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD

Introduction

Alien: Romulus spares no time at grasping the audience’s attention.

The deafening silence that accompanies its magnificent first scene – a spaceship gliding through the debris of Nostromo – is a confident way to demonstrate its fine quality as a film.

The spaceship in question was inviting a well-known monster onboard, extracting a meteorite in which the Xenomorph from the first Alien movie was entombed.

For a movie franchise that is 45 years old, the horror trope is all-too familiar. Anyone with a remote knowledge of the 1980s pop culture can already predict what would happen next: facehuggers, chest-bursting alien babies and acid-blooded Xenomorphs slaughtering everyone on board. After six Alien movies, the setting and plot of Romulus do not exactly offer anything new.

And yet, boredom did not strike me for even a second. Despite its tired elements, Romulus offers new ways of storytelling to the Alien canon that kept me invested in the story throughout its runtime.

It does not revolutionize the tenets of the franchise – in fact, many of Romulus’ elements follow the template established by the six movies that came before. How then, did Romulus become one of the best movies in the franchise as well as an entertaining horror in 2024? The answer lies in three factors: nostalgia, stunning visuals and a new interpretation of its true horror.

That ‘80s Formula

In short, Romulus is a story about a group of indentured workers and a synthetic (i.e., an android) trying to escape their homeworld and undertake a multi-year voyage across space. To achieve so, they needed to extract cryochambers from a defunct space station that, unsurprisingly, was infested with facehuggers and Xenomorphs.

Itcapitalizes on the ‘80s nostalgia that has swept the film and television industry in recent years, fuelled by the decade’s cultural gravitas as well as Hollywood’s lack of confidence at producing new materials. Blade Runner 2049, Stranger Things and It exemplify this, evoking visual imagery that is native of the ‘80s or setting an entire story in the decade.

Romulus leans towards the former. A portion of its first act is set in Jackson, shown as a dark, steampunk-ish sunless planet that reminds us of the “dirty” and bleak dystopia typical of Blade Runner and The Terminator.

When the setting finally shifts to the space station Renaissance, this identity remains just as strong, manifesting through the ‘80s interpretation of “advanced” technologies. This includes computers with convex screens, bulky keyboard keys and cubic fonts typically used for coding today, all of which give a major throwback to how technologies were depicted in the decade’s movies.

It stands in sharp contrast with its immediate predecessors Prometheus and Alien: Covenant, which opt for futuristic physics, a clean look and an optimistic take on technology. The problem is, the two movies were released around the same time period as other movies that featured a similar look and feel (such as Star Wars, Star Trek and the more realistic Interstellar). They failed to stand out among the rest.

Romulus refuses to bow to this convention, instead choosing “backward” imagery that strongly registers with today’s audience.

Magnificent Shots

Romulus is also supported by some truly magnificent shots, placing it closer to Interstellar than Star Wars in a spectrum of comparison.

Some of these are worth mentioning here. The atmospheric ascension of Corbelan, the characters’ ship, through thick and stormy clouds conjures the image of their rise from a hellscape (Jackson) to a hope for a brighter future (Renaissance) with divine intensity.

Once above the atmosphere, wide shots are also utilized to showcase Jackson’s gloomy surface coupled with its impressive belt of icy rings, portraying the outer space that is beautiful and dangerous at once. My awe was further elevated as Renaissance came into view, an imposing, floating object that would soon be the characters’ fatal agony.

This interplay between beautiful visuals and danger becomes a leitmotif throughout the movie. Renaissance’s halls, labs and rooms are well-designed but leave enough room for danger to lurk in shadowy crevices.

The station’s striking exterior is also beautifully shot, even as Corbelan crashed against its fuel tank and augmented the sense of emergency.

Of most memorable is the collision of Renaissance with Jackson’s planetary rings, depicting a stunning catastrophe brought about by ice, fire and empty space.

Beautiful shots like these usually bear a small contribution to the plot progression, but in the case of Romulus, they act as a counter to the potential boredom created by our overfamiliarity with its horror.

In other words, these shots improve the movie’s quality by injecting artistic components that force the audience to judge it beyond just its horror elements.

Moreover, they also widen our perspective of the Alien franchise by introducing a creative dimension to its expanding universe, in a way that is more impactful than the franchise’s most recent attempts. Again, Prometheus and Covenant look stylish and modern, yet they are not as striking as Romulus.

As if this is not enough, consider also the clever use of colors to accentuate the movies’ mood and ambience, which overall raised my cinematic experience. Loosely, yellow is suspense, white is safe, blue is low temperature and red is death. These accents also rarely play any role in the story but act as a useful compass as to what the audience can expect in the next few minutes or so, thereby swelling the thrill. For example, had the movie used standard lighting and colorization for the scene where dormant facehuggers were coming back to life in their cryopods, I doubt it would have had an effect as terrifying as the one shown in the movie’s final cut.

Technology and Corruption

To my surprise, my familiarity with Romulus’ alien life forms allowed me to pay more attention to its other aspects, thereby facilitating a different interpretation of what its core horror really is to me personally.

This relates to the corrupt use of technology, as well as to humans’ helplessness at trying to control it.

An early point in the story shows a bureaucrat of Weyland-Yutani, the corporation that “enslaved” the human characters on Jackson, who was manipulating her computer data to deny Rain (Cailee Spaeny) her right to relocate to a planet outside the corporation’s control.

This might seem like a menial detail. However, such a crucial act was what propelled Rain and Andy (her synthetic “brother” played by David Jonsson) to embark on their deadly adventure with the rest of the characters.

The intersection of corruption and horror is rife in Southeast Asia, where the abuse of power could pave the way for personal horror in the life of the abused. Romulus reminds us that technology can be a vector for such abuse, which, in the region’s context, has resulted in social ills and crimes.

In Indonesia, for example, the recent data leak disaster represents the nation’s desire for modernization that is not sufficiently paired with efforts to address the fundamentals, i.e., cybersecurity. As a result, the loss of millions of citizens’ personal data would be a looming anxiety over years to come, as they await in concern over how their data would be exploited by irresponsible parties.

The Malaysian government has also been under pressure to combat cybercrimes targeting vulnerable individuals, particularly children. With 4% of internet-using children in Malaysia (aged 12–17) having become victims of online sexual exploitation, we can only imagine the tales of horror these victims have experienced in the past and may continue to struggle with in the future.

Meanwhile, Cambodia has emerged as something of a hotspot of cyber-slavery, where gangsters allure individuals (often young and English-speaking) from neighboring countries with a promise of well-paid employment. The victims would soon find themselves in closed compounds with their documents seized, forced to perform online scams with no prospect of getting released.

These are just snippets of how technology has been exploited by malicious parties in Southeast Asia, leaving only destruction in their wake. They are not too dissimilar to Weyland-Yutani’s activities to keep Rain on as an indentured worker, by way of manipulating technology.

Futile Attempt

It is not an Alien movie if it does not depict the tension and collaboration between humans and synthetics. In Romulus, this manifests in the human characters’ perplexity – and eventual dread – over their inability to control Andy’s behavior and actions.

To recap, the friendly synthetic was invited to join the crew for his ability to communicate with Renaissance’s AI, allowing him to perform all sorts of tasks such as opening locked doors and navigating the station’s alien-infested corridors. Andy started to behave outside the humans’ expectations once a new module was installed on his processor, shifting his priorities away from serving Rain’s best interest to Weyland-Yutani’s.

In other words, whereas Andy’s prime directive was to preserve human lives, his “upgrade” changed to fulfilling the company’s pursuit. He also started to apply cold logic to his actions which frightened the human characters for how inhuman they seemingly were.

Nothing in this plotline also feels refreshingly new. This theme of human-synthetic tension has been a staple since Ash betrayed the human crew of Nostromo in 1979’s Alien. Subsequently, we have had Bishop (Aliens), who was a poster boy of an obedient synthetic, as well as David (Prometheus and Covenant), who was just as capable of enjoying classical music as instigating a genocide.

Romulus applies a more sinister undertone to this long-running theme, mixing Andy’s identity question and the human characters’ futile attempt at keeping him under control. The result was the latent horror that amplifies Romulus’ overt horror, i.e., the facehuggers and Xenomorphs.

For example, the cold logic of upgraded Andy demanded he terminate the pilot who was impregnated by a facehugger. Though he was unsuccessful, his attempt to do so resulted in a disaster that only worsened the overall situation. At that point, the horror shifted from the Xenomorph to Andy, as the surviving characters and audience wondered about which posed more threat.

Meanwhile, despite his initial task of obeying the humans’ request to open locked doors, upgraded Andy showed that he could decide not to abide by such a demand. At one point, he refused to open a locked door, thereby condemning the pregnant person on the other side to oblivion by Xenomorph.

The tension between Andy and the humans represents the latter’s failed attempt at controlling technology despite their utilitarian design when inviting him onboard. Ultimately, their downfall came about from their inability to anticipate the consequences of upgrading Andy, which was portrayed as the synthetic being “corrupted” by Weyland-Yutani’s capitalist pursuit.

This plotline is also consistent with the popular discourse about humans’ latent fear over machines’ unpredictability and display of higher independence, a topic which has also been highlighted in The Terminator and Mass Effect, among others. In the former, Skynet saw all humans as a threat after becoming self-aware, while in the latter, the Geth spooked its creators by asking if it has a soul, a question that can only be conceived by a sentient creature.  

In real life, AI has been observed to have behaved in unpredictable ways or even rogue-like manners thanks to glitches, biases and vulnerabilities, albeit in a far less catastrophic fashion. Linked to the previous section is how AI could also be warped by certain parties to pursue less-than-altruistic goals, such as instigating cyber-attacks, online fraud and spreading hoaxes. Furthermore, it does not help that AI continues to be viewed suspiciously among certain quarters; in Singapore, for example, less than half of SMEs surveyed claimed that AI has had or will make a positive impact on their business productivity.

If such are our concerns today, then in the probable future, Romulus shows that humans remain unable to subjugate technology to their will. The question is no longer about what we are going to use AI for; it is whether humans should be entrusted with this technology in the first place.

Whereas such plotlines would have been relegated to science fiction in previous decades, we cannot help but wonder if these have become a not-so-remote possibility thanks to today’s state of technology. Romulus’ true horror, thus, lies in its Lovecraftian approach to advanced technologies—the dread over what machines would do once they become self-aware and obtain free will, as well as humans’ futile attempt at trying to tame it.

Conclusion

Romulus is a strikingly beautiful movie and its artistic choices worked well in amplifying its quality. It abandons the clean, futuristic and high-tech look while choosing to remain faithful to the imageries of the first Alien movies, which resonate well with the audience’s taste today. The latest advancement in technology has also prompted new ways to interpret its true horror, away from the alien life forms to the synthetic beings that we strive to create today.

[WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD]

The Society Loves its Horror

How does the story about the trauma caused by a terrorist attack reflect, challenge and enlighten the Indonesian public?  

Siksa Kubur (Grave Torture) opened on 11 April 2024 in Indonesia, where horror movies are arguably the most popular in the market. The movie is a special treat for fans of horror movies who love having their intellect engaged by what they see on the widescreen. Its chief theme of repentance also seals the Ramadhan experience this year, which concluded just two days before Siksa Kubur was released.

Audience may find this cinematic experience thought-provoking, borderline nihilistic but also relatable, considering many of its components are derived from our mundane daily life. It is a blend of religious and psychological horror that is highly unusual for Indonesians, a deeply mystical society who love to be spooked by ghosts and monsters but may not necessarily grasp the terrible terror of the afterlife.  Joko Anwar penned its script and helmed its direction, creating a flawed story that continues to haunt our psyche days after credits roll.

Though not without criticism, the movie strives to enrich the public’s discourse on contemporary socio-cultural topics. It carries a strong premise about grave torture for the sinful in Islamic tradition, while also being supported by an oppressive atmosphere, stellar performance by some of its cast as well as its more subtle messages that present themselves as riddles.

For these reasons and its reflection as well as critique of the Indonesian society, Siksa Kubur is a must watch, even if its narrative structure still falls victim to questionable logic that more often than not plagues Indonesian moving pictures.

This piece attempts to explore some of the themes and messages that are scattered throughout this dark movie.

Sita Challenges Religion

In short, Siksa Kubur depicts the traumatic lives of siblings Sita (Faradina Mufti) and Adil (Reza Rahadian) whose parents were killed in a suicide bombing attack outside their bakery.

Each sibling manifests the pathos differently. Elder Adil succumbs to a lifelong depressed state, while younger Sita wages a war against religion and God. By burying herself next to the corpse of a most sinful person, Sita hopes to prove that grave torture, religion and divine power are mere societal myths.

It may appear blasphemous, but her motivation appears humane. She was forced to put a blame on something after her traumatic experience in order to help her rationalize it (which, in her case case, religion). Sita turns further away from religion after the rich owner of the pesantren they go to rapes Adil.

Putting aside the absurdity of the pesantren rape plot point (back-to-back atrocities seem punishingly nihilistic for two protagonist children), Director Joko Anwar tells a story that demotes horror from the metaphysic to the mundane, one born out of social ills and heinous crimes. He showcases that personal horror does not have to be caused by ghosts and ghouls, but by simply falling victim to a terrorist or a rapist in pesantren, the latter becoming an alarmingly frequent phenomenon in Indonesia. This way, he grounded Siksa Kubur in reality.

But he goes further than that. Siksa Kubur is his latest and most ambitious attempt at bringing dialectic to the discussion about Islamic concepts and practice through desacralization, which he has dabbled in before (e.g., both ustadz in both Pengabdi Setan [Satan’s Slaves] movies are murdered by demonic presence). In Siksa Kubur, this is shown through three instances.

First, Islam is depicted as having been twisted by its followers through the terrorist attack and the pesantren rape incident.

Second, religious characters appear irrelevant or outright despicable. Videos of ustadz discussing about grave torture are dismissed by adult Sita. Meanwhile, a weirdly-accented, despicable ustadzah (Jajang C. Noer) at young Sita’s pesantren is hell-bent on punishing Sita for breaking rules, but readily accepts the rapist owner’s proclivities because “he has helped other students”.

Third, by interrogating the very nature of grave torture, the filmmaker downgrades its presence from the absolute realm (i.e., perceived as a factual truth in Islamic tradition) to the audience’s subjective interpretation. Even that explosive ending does not offer much closure, as audience are encouraged to interpret whether the visceral depiction of grave torture is real or a result of chemical reaction in her brain.

By depicting these, Joko Anwar successfully reproduces the internal anxiety faced by Muslims in Indonesia. These are questions they probably have had to face and received no conclusive answers for (e.g., why some Muslims become terrorists; whether religious figures today are inviolable and; what comes after death; etc.). The movie is a reflection of questions, doubt and skepticism harbored by Indonesian Muslims as they practice their faith in the growing conservatism of the country. This is an important nuance for observers of Indonesian Muslims, showcasing that the religious group is richer than just their rituals, tension with outgroups or voting pattern.   

Desacralization has triggered public curiosity and outright backlash before. However, Joko Anwar cleverly employs this device to induce the audience into thinking critically about how Islam is practiced and subverted by its followers in Indonesia.

Unfortunately, for all its sublime genius in provocative imagery, Siksa Kubur falls short as a philosophical treatise. It excels in provoking the audience through images and symbols, but disappoints when it explores the debate that transpires. A particularly low point is the central confrontation between Sita and Pak Wahyu about the nature of grave torture. In it, Pak Wahyu’s renunciation of spiritual torment in grave simply rests upon his opinion that ustadz everywhere do not discuss about it. It is an example of shallow arguments that mar the more critical conversations throughout the movie.

This puts Siksa Kubur in contrast to religious horror masterpiece Midnight Mass, which scrutinizes religion and affirms faith unashamedly. Alternatively, Joko Anwar’s restraint might also reflect Muslims’ own reluctance at confronting religion with critical questions, which is also another source of internal discomfort among the community.

Siksa Kubur is rife with thought-provoking religious symbolism without having to go full-blown Islamic, even if it does not invite us into a philosophical ride.

Adil Subverts the Stereotypes

Siksa Kubur is also not hesitant to challenge common gender stereotypes that prevail in Indonesia.

Character-wise, Sita is presented as an antithesis to a tired horror trope that frequently portrays women as an antagonistic ghoul. This patriarchal and exploitative approach is common in Indonesia’s horror repertoire, such as Joko Anwar’s own Pengabdi Setan, Suzanna: Buried Alive and KKN di Desa Penari (Community Service at the Dancer’s Village).

Her arc is unique. She may have been victimized early in the movie, but she draws on her trauma to pursue a life goal (i.e., waging a war against religion) as a rational, breathing woman. In other movies, she probably needs to die and comes back as a vengeful, cackling ghost before her objective can be achieved.

Since the first minutes, she has been portrayed as the more dominant of the two siblings, making difficult decision and charting the path that she and Adil must tread. She does this despite being the younger of the two and a woman, which challenges a common cultural expectation that see men as a leader and more rational gender.

Stereotypes are further subverted by the reserved Adil. Between the siblings, the latter is arguably more miserable: 1) he could have prevented his parents’ deaths; 2) he is raped by the pesantren owner and; 3) he feels emasculated next to his very capable sister. Whereas Sita is empowered by her anger, Adil’s trauma wrecks his life, strains his relationships (his wife leaves him) and plunges him into endless depression.

He may be trauma personified, but as a character he challenges the societal assumption that only women are susceptible to mental health problems. He shows what trauma and depression does to a man in a believable way, thanks to Reza Rahadian’s scene-stealing performance. The palpability of his anguish nudges us to also ponder upon the pain endured by real-life survivors of terrorist and rape incidents, including boys and men.

Even toxic masculinity is not spared. Siksa Kubur encourages us to empathize with non-conforming men who are not hesitant to display strong emotion. Adil is consistently exhibited as having qualities that may not be expected in an alpha male: 1) compassion (he offers warm water to a thirsty customer, who minutes later kills his parents); 2) sensitive (he is aware of his flaws as the older sibling) and; 3) level-headedness (he is cautious of the potential fallout of Sita’s scheme). Adil also expresses his emotion more openly compared to Sita with her stoic defiance, visibly crying at various points in an apparent display of grief.

Siksa Kubur wants us to confront our prejudice and asks if we judge these characters, even if they do not comply to the societal standards that we subscribe to. Case in point: when Adil gets indecisive and confused in a particularly stressful scene, the girl seated next to me blurted, “I really hate this Adil.”

Pak Wahyu Screams in His Grave

The central story of Siksa Kubur alone is packed with messages and provocations despite descending into a bizarre haunting plotline in its second act. However, what makes this movie truly dazzling is its existence as a metaphor of a journey towards acceptance and healing.  

Throughout the film, Sita and Adil are almost exclusively seen indoors, suggested to be their trauma response to the danger that lurks outside (their parents are killed outside their bakery). Things shift after Pak Wahyu’s suicide, as the they start finding problems indoors too. Sita is harassed by a black apparition (implied to be either one of the angels Munkar and Nakir) and Adil was attacked by a walking corpse. These may symbolize their festering trauma that starts to cause problems to their psyche as they fail to address it.

The key to this indoor vs. outdoor riddle lies towards the end, when Sita embarks on a psychological journey into herself, ending up in the same tunnel she used to escape from the pesantren years ago. After getting harassed by restless spirits, the black angel and the demonic version of Pak Wahyu, Sita soon finds herself in her family’s bakery with her parents outside, all-smiles and waving goodbye to her before peacefully disappearing.

This is the most critical scene in the story, as Sita – who is crying at this point – is seemingly informed by her parents that she needs to accept their death and let go of her anger. She must find her way outside from the prison of trauma that she builds and encloses herself within. It is one that offers a completely different interpretation of what the movie conveys – a psychological journey of healing instead of an outright horror.

This theme is further reinforced afterwards, with Sita helping a spirit of Pak Wahyu’s rape victim to pass on to the afterlife, suggesting her acceptance of the metaphysics after spending years rejecting its possibility. As Sita wakes up next to Pak Wahyu’s corpse moments before it is tortured in the most unspeakable way, she screams out for help and finally seeks for forgiveness and help from God. Her arc is completed here, having transformed from a person who blames religion and God for her pain to one that accepts God’s greatness and the strange mysteries of life.

Sita’s horrific journey is a symbolism of the arduous process that individuals suffering from mental health challenges must undertake to heal. In a society where conversation about mental health is still frowned upon, the severity of the issue compounds. In 2018, more than 12 million Indonesians aged 15 and above suffered from different stages of depression, but less than 3% actively sought professional help. Meanwhile, in 2022 it is estimated that 12,250 Indonesian adolescents were afflicted with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), the same issue endured by Sita and Adil.

Siksa Kubur is a window into the daily suffering of those who live with unresolved trauma and internal conflict, as well as the terrible consequences of not addressing them. If we can find ourselves identifying with Sita and Adil, then it should not be difficult for us to build compassion for victims of traumatizing experience in Indonesia as well, which includes armed conflict, bullying, terrorist attack, domestic and sexual violence, accident, natural disaster, and many more. A simple Google search will inform us of the variety and frequency of social ills amidst the Indonesian society today, potentially giving birth to hundreds if not thousands of Sita and Adil every day.

Sita may find her resolution at the end of the movie, but we cannot expect real-life Sitas and Adils to suffer through a similarly punishing ride before finding their peace as well. A pertinent question thus arises: do perpetrators of violence, abuse, crimes and other social ills believe in the existence of grave torture before committing deeds that leave others traumatized?

Man Robbuka?

On a personal level, Siksa Kubur is a profound story that compels one to introspect on their life, wrongdoings and virtues. It is effective both as a psychological and religious horror, even if it loses its footing in the middle and fails as a philosophical argument. Its brilliance, however, lies in its ability to reflect the realities of the Muslim society in Indonesia, challenge prevailing norms and standards, as well as pinpoint the issues that deserve more attention in Indonesia. If not for its shortfalls, it could have been Joko Anwar’s masterpiece, surpassing even Perempuan Tanah Jahanam (Impetigore).