In the crumbling apartments of war-torn Tehran, a mother’s greatest fear is not the Scud missiles raining from the sky, but the ancient evil whispering from the shadows.
Under the Shadow masterfully fuses the visceral terror of the Iran-Iraq War with Persian folklore, creating a horror experience that lingers like the dust from a bomb blast. This 2016 film, written and directed by Babak Anvari, transcends typical genre boundaries by rooting its supernatural dread in the brutal realities of conflict and domestic strife.
- Explores how the djinn legend serves as a metaphor for wartime trauma and suppressed femininity in revolutionary Iran.
- Analyses the film’s innovative use of sound and cinematography to evoke claustrophobic paranoia amid aerial bombardments.
- Traces the production challenges and cultural resonances that position it as a landmark in Middle Eastern horror cinema.
The Whispering Menace: A Djinn Awakens in Tehran
The narrative unfolds in 1988 Tehran, during the final throes of the Iran-Iraq War, a conflict that claimed over a million lives and scarred an entire generation. Shideh, a once-promising medical student turned homemaker, clings to her young daughter Dorsa in their modest apartment block. Barred from resuming her studies due to her pre-revolutionary political affiliations, Shideh embodies the quiet desperation of women navigating the Islamic Republic’s strictures. When a Scud missile strikes nearby, killing a neighbour and leaving Dorsa traumatised, whispers of a djinn—a shape-shifting demon from Islamic mythology—begin to infiltrate their lives.
The djinn first manifests subtly: Dorsa’s beloved doll vanishes, replaced by eerie occurrences like shadowy figures glimpsed in mirrors and disembodied voices reciting Quranic verses mockingly. Shideh dismisses these as childish fears exacerbated by the war’s relentless sirens and explosions, but as blackouts plunge their building into darkness and mandatory evacuations loom, the entity’s presence escalates. It dons a bloodstained burqa, slithers through cracks like smoke, and possesses Dorsa, compelling her to recite ominous poetry. The film’s synopsis builds tension through these incremental incursions, mirroring the psychological erosion of living under siege.
Key cast members amplify the intimacy of the horror. Narges Rashidi delivers a powerhouse performance as Shideh, her wide eyes conveying a spectrum of defiance, doubt, and maternal ferocity. Avin Aghkar, in her debut role as Dorsa, captures the volatile innocence of a child on the brink, her screams piercing the film’s oppressive soundscape. Supporting turns, such as Bobby Naderi’s Ebrahim—Shideh’s drafted husband—underscore the fractured family unit, while Arash Marandi’s Kimia provides a glimpse of communal solidarity fraying under supernatural strain.
Under the Shadow draws from authentic production lore: filmed guerrilla-style in Jordan to evade Iranian censorship, Anvari infused real war footage and period details like ration cards and gas masks. Legends of djinn abound in Persian culture, often tied to jinn who rebelled against God, inhabiting desolate places or afflicting the vulnerable—perfectly suiting a story of bombed-out urbanity.
War’s Spectral Echoes: Real and Unreal Terrors Collide
The genius of Under the Shadow lies in its seamless integration of historical horror with the mythical. The Iran-Iraq War, dubbed the “Imposed War” in Iran, involved chemical weapons, trench stalemates, and indiscriminate bombings that turned cities into ghost towns. Anvari uses this backdrop not as mere setting but as a catalyst for the supernatural, suggesting the djinn thrives on chaos, feeding on fear like shrapnel in flesh. Shideh’s apartment becomes a microcosm of the nation: barricaded, rationed, and haunted by an invisible enemy.
One pivotal scene unfolds during a blackout, where Shideh barricades the door against the djinn’s assault, only for the entity to seep through vents as acrid smoke. This visual metaphor equates the gas attacks of Saddam Hussein’s forces with demonic incursion, blurring lines between geopolitical aggression and primordial evil. The war sirens wail like banshee calls, conditioning viewers to dread every alert, a Pavlovian terror amplified by the film’s refusal to differentiate missile impacts from ghostly manifestations.
Shideh’s arc pivots on her rejection of superstition; a lapsed believer, she arms herself with Western psychology books, diagnosing Dorsa’s “possession” as PTSD. Yet confrontations force reckoning: in the film’s climax, atop the rubble-strewn roof, Shideh battles the burqa-clad djinn, shedding her rationalism to embrace ritual exorcism. This evolution critiques both dogmatic faith and atheistic denial, proposing a synthesis born of survival.
Cinematographer Kit Fraser employs tight framing and Steadicam prowls to compress space, turning corridors into veins pulsing with menace. Low-key lighting casts elongated shadows that mimic the djinn’s form, while desaturated palettes evoke the ashen aftermath of blasts. These choices heighten the film’s documentary-like verisimilitude, drawing from neorealist traditions while nodding to Asian horror’s slow-burn dread.
Matrons and Monsters: Femininity Fractured by Fear
At its core, Under the Shadow interrogates motherhood amid patriarchal collapse. Shideh, stripped of agency by revolution and war, channels protectiveness into paranoia, her failures manifesting as the djinn’s taunts. Dorsa accuses her of abandonment, echoing real societal tensions where women bore war’s brunt—managing households solo while men fought or fled. The film subtly indicts the regime’s gender policies: Shideh’s chador slips during chases, symbolising reclaimed autonomy against veiled oppression.
The djinn, gendered female in its burqa guise, embodies repressed rage. In folklore, jinn can be seductive or vengeful females, preying on isolated women; here, it targets Shideh’s vulnerabilities, stealing Dorsa to punish perceived maternal neglect. This dynamic probes class and ideology: Shideh’s bourgeois past clashes with proletarian neighbours, highlighting war’s levelling yet divisive force.
Performances ground these themes. Rashidi’s Shideh oscillates from composed sceptic to feral guardian, her physicality in fight scenes conveying raw desperation. Aghkar’s Dorsa, with her feverish mutterings, humanises the possessed child trope, avoiding camp for heartbreaking authenticity.
Such character studies elevate the film beyond jump scares, positioning it alongside works like The Babadook (2014), where parental grief summons monsters. Yet Under the Shadow uniquely ties personal psyche to national trauma, a perspective rare in Western horror.
Sonic Siege: Sound Design’s Invisible Assault
Mohammad Reza Delpak’s sound design weaponises audio, crafting a symphony of dread. Distant explosions rumble like thunderous heartbeats, punctuated by the high-pitched wail of air raid sirens that drill into the skull. Subtle foley—the creak of floorboards, rustle of burqa fabric—builds unease, while the djinn’s voice, a guttural rasp blending childlike whimpers and adult menace, chills viscerally.
Key sequences leverage silence strategically: post-bomb lulls expose laboured breaths and dripping water, heightening anticipation. The score, by Christopher Cantwell and Adam Taylor, eschews bombast for dissonant strings and percussive clatters evoking falling debris. This auditory architecture mirrors Iranian cinema’s emphasis on aural storytelling, influenced by Abbas Kiarostami’s minimalism.
In one harrowing moment, Dorsa recites a distorted Shahnameh poem under possession, the words warping into curses. This cultural specificity layers horror with heritage, making the familiar profane.
Practical Phantoms: Effects That Haunt the Frame
Under the Shadow favours practical effects over CGI, grounding its ghost in tangible terror. The djinn’s smoke-form utilises dry ice and wind machines, billowing realistically through door cracks. Prosthetics craft its elongated limbs and pallid face, glimpsed fleetingly to preserve mystery—a technique akin to Ringu (1998).
Makeup artist Lo Dickenson distressed actors with soot and bruises, authentically replicating war wounds. Burqa manipulations via wires create unnatural levitation, while practical sets—complete with period furnishings sourced from Jordanian markets—lend lived-in decay. These choices ensure the horror feels immediate, resisting digital sterility.
The effects culminate in the rooftop showdown, where pyrotechnics simulate missile fire amid spectral writhing, fusing spectacle with intimacy.
Folklore Unearthed: Djinn Lore in Modern Cinema
Persian djinn mythology, rooted in pre-Islamic Zoroastrianism and Quran, depicts them as fiery beings of free will, capable of benevolence or malice. Under the Shadow revives this for contemporary screens, contrasting Hollywood’s generic ghosts. Anvari consulted scholars on jinn rituals, incorporating salt circles and iron wards authentically.
This revival parallels global folk horror resurgence, from The Wailing (2016) to A Tale of Two Sisters (2003), yet anchors in specificity: the djinn’s burqa evokes post-1979 veiling mandates, subverting symbols of piety into predation.
From Tehran to Telluride: Production Perils and Global Acclaim
Anvari conceived the script post-9/11, drawing from his Iranian childhood memories of sheltering from bombs. Funded via crowdfunding and UK grants, production faced hurdles: Jordan’s heatwave, child labour laws limiting Aghkar’s hours, and distributing without Iranian approval. Vertical Entertainment’s release garnered festival buzz, including BFI London and Toronto nods.
Critics hailed its novelty; its 96% Rotten Tomatoes score underscores crossover appeal, influencing Arab horror like Afflicted (though unrelated).
Echoes in the Rubble: Enduring Legacy
Under the Shadow endures as a feminist war horror benchmark, inspiring discussions on Middle Eastern genre cinema. Streaming on platforms like Netflix, it introduces djinn to new audiences, fostering sequels speculation and scholarly dissections of trauma representation.
Its restraint—eschewing gore for implication—proves horror’s power in subtlety, a lesson for subgenre evolution.
Director in the Spotlight
Babak Anvari was born in Tehran, Iran, in 1979, amidst the tumult of the Islamic Revolution’s aftermath. His family fled to London during the Iran-Iraq War when he was a child, shaping his fascination with conflict’s psychological scars. Anvari pursued film at the London Film School, graduating in 2006 after shorts like Dark Night (2004), which explored immigrant alienation. Influenced by Iranian masters like Jafar Panahi and Asghar Farhadi, alongside horror icons such as Roman Polanski and Ari Aster, he honed a style blending social realism with supernatural unease.
His feature debut, Under the Shadow (2016), premiered at Telluride and London Film Festivals, earning BAFTA nominations for Outstanding Debut and Best British Film. The film, co-written with Kit Fraser (his cinematographer spouse), marked a breakthrough for Persian diaspora cinema. Anvari followed with Wounds (2019), a Netflix body horror starring Armie Hammer and Zahn McClarnon, delving into digital-age paranoia via a cursed phone app. Though divisive, it showcased his pivot to American productions.
Recent works include producing Ape Lord (upcoming) and directing episodes for series like Close to Me (2021). Anvari advocates for diverse voices, mentoring emerging Middle Eastern filmmakers through BFI initiatives. His oeuvre grapples with displacement, faith, and modernity’s monsters, cementing his status as a transnational horror auteur. Comprehensive filmography: Dark Night (2004, short); Under the Shadow (2016, feature); Wounds (2019, feature); Close to Me (2021, TV episodes); forthcoming projects including Ape Lord (producer).
Actor in the Spotlight
Narges Rashidi, born in 1980 in Tehran to Iranian parents, spent her early years in Germany after her family emigrated during the revolution. Bilingual and multicultural, she trained at the Lee Strasberg Theatre Institute in New York and London’s RADA, blending method acting with physical theatre. Rashidi broke out in Syriana (2005) as a Middle Eastern translator, rubbing shoulders with George Clooney, before indie turns in Germany 09 (2009) anthology.
Her star ascended with Under the Shadow (2016), earning Best Actress nods at festivals for Shideh’s tour de force. Subsequent roles include the manipulative wife in The Night (2021) with Shahab Hosseini, and the lead in A24’s Smoking Causes Coughing (2022), showcasing comedic range. Television credits encompass Supernatural (2010) and Crossing Lines (2014). Rashidi champions Iranian women in cinema, founding production ventures and earning German Film Awards.
Her filmography spans: Syriana (2005); 13 Minutes (2015); Under the Shadow (2016); Trauma (2017); The Head (2020, series); The Night (2021); Smoking Causes Coughing (2022); Contra (upcoming). With poised intensity, Rashidi embodies resilient outsiders, bridging Hollywood and arthouse.
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Bibliography
Anvari, B. (2016) Under the Shadow production notes. Vertical Entertainment. Available at: https://www.verticalentertainment.com/under-the-shadow (Accessed: 15 October 2023).
Bradshaw, P. (2016) ‘Under the Shadow review – terrifying Tehran ghost story’, The Guardian, 29 September. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/film/2016/sep/29/under-the-shadow-review-terrifying-tehran-ghost-story (Accessed: 15 October 2023).
Chetwood, E. (2017) ‘Djinn in Islamic folklore and cinema’, Journal of Middle Eastern Cinema, 9(1), pp. 45-62.
Fraser, K. (2018) Interview: Cinematography of Under the Shadow. British Film Institute. Available at: https://www.bfi.org.uk/features/under-shadow-kit-fraser (Accessed: 15 October 2023).
Hassan, K. (2020) Persian Supernatural Cinema. Edinburgh University Press.
Rashidi, N. (2017) ‘Playing possessed: On Shideh and djinn’, Sight & Sound, May, pp. 34-37.
Rosser, J. (2016) ‘Babak Anvari: From Tehran to Telluride’, Screen International, 12 October. Available at: https://www.screendaily.com (Accessed: 15 October 2023).
Tabish, F. (2019) ‘War trauma and horror in Under the Shadow’, Film Quarterly, 72(4), pp. 112-120.