Whispers from the Rubble: Djinn Dread Amid Tehran’s Turmoil

In the ceaseless thunder of war, an ancient evil stirs, blurring the line between mortar shells and malevolent spirits.

Under the Shadow masterfully fuses the visceral terror of the Iran-Iraq War with Persian folklore’s spectral horrors, creating a film that resonates as both a supernatural chiller and a poignant wartime allegory. Directed by Babak Anvari, this 2016 gem captures the stifling atmosphere of 1980s Tehran, where bombs fall like judgment and djinn haunt the fringes of sanity.

• Explores the intersection of real historical trauma and mythical djinn possession, redefining horror through cultural specificity.
• Spotlights the raw performances of Narges Rashidi and Avinca Nabi, anchoring supernatural dread in maternal desperation.
• Analyses innovative sound design and cinematography that amplify the film’s dual layers of fear, from aerial assaults to otherworldly whispers.

Bomb Craters and Invisible Foes

The narrative unfolds in Tehran during the protracted Iran-Iraq War of the 1980s, a period marked by relentless Iraqi airstrikes that turned the city into a labyrinth of fear and fortification. Shideh, a once-promising medical student barred from her studies for revolutionary sympathies, now tends to her young daughter Dorsa in their crumbling apartment block. As Scud missiles rain down, forcing residents into underground shelters, strange occurrences escalate: Dorsa’s beloved doll vanishes, shadows twist unnaturally, and an old woman whispers of a djinn—a shape-shifting demon from Islamic mythology—preying on the vulnerable. What begins as childish nightmares morphs into full-blown possession, with Shideh grappling between rational dismissal and the encroaching supernatural.

Anvari’s screenplay, co-written with Kitty Calder, meticulously weaves historical authenticity with folklore. The film draws from real events, including the 1988 Tehran bombings, evoking the constant wail of air raid sirens and the communal huddling in basements. Shideh’s isolation mirrors the broader societal fractures: women navigating post-revolution restrictions, families splintered by conscription, and a populace haunted by both enemy fire and ideological purges. Yet, the djinn emerges not as a mere monster but as a metaphor for intangible losses—the erosion of hope, the haunting of grief—that war inflicts more insidiously than any explosion.

Key sequences amplify this duality. In one harrowing scene, Shideh ventures into the blackout-shrouded streets to retrieve Dorsa’s doll, the camera’s shallow focus capturing her silhouette against flickering searchlights, while guttural whispers layer over the distant rumble of artillery. This mise-en-scène, with its desaturated palette of greys and muted earth tones, evokes the pervasive dust of rubble, symbolising how war grinds down the spirit. The apartment itself becomes a pressure cooker, its peeling walls and barricaded windows trapping both mother and malevolence.

Motherhood Under Siege

At the film’s core lies a profound character study of Shideh, portrayed with unflinching intensity by Narges Rashidi. Her arc traces a descent from staunch secularism to desperate mysticism, challenging Western horror tropes of the sceptical protagonist. Shideh’s pre-war dreams of medicine clash with her current reality, underscoring themes of thwarted female ambition in revolutionary Iran. Rashidi imbues her with a quiet ferocity—eyes wide with defiance during shelter debates, voice cracking as she recounts her husband’s frontline absence—making her a relatable everymother thrust into the uncanny.

Dorsa, played by the remarkable Avinca Nabi, serves as the conduit for horror, her innocence weaponised by the djinn. Nabi’s performance captures the blur between genuine terror and possession: wide-eyed pleas morph into eerie chants, her small frame convulsing in shadows. Their mother-daughter bond, strained by wartime privations yet unbreakable, forms the emotional spine. A pivotal confrontation in the basement, where Shideh performs an improvised exorcism amid gas mask-clad neighbours, blends raw physicality with psychological unraveling, highlighting how trauma passes generationally.

Gender dynamics permeate the piece. Shideh rejects traditional veiling until necessity demands it, her chador becoming both camouflage and shroud—a visual motif tying personal oppression to spectral invasion. This feminist undercurrent critiques patriarchal controls, from revolutionary edicts to folklore’s gendered demons, positioning the djinn as an embodiment of suppressed rage. Anvari draws parallels to Iranian literature, where jinn often punish moral lapses, but here they exploit war’s chaos, indifferent to piety.

Folklore’s Fury in Modern Warfare

The djinn legend anchors the supernatural, rooted in pre-Islamic Persian and Quranic traditions where these fire-born entities inhabit liminal spaces—ruins, whirlwinds, the human mind. Under the Shadow innovates by localising them to Tehran’s war-torn fabric: the spirit latches onto bombed-out buildings, its presence heralded by chador-clad apparitions mimicking absent women. This cultural specificity elevates the film beyond generic ghost stories, engaging Iranian diaspora audiences while introducing Western viewers to non-Christian demonology.

Production hurdles shaped its authenticity. Shot guerrilla-style in Jordan to evade Iranian censorship—despite its pro-women stance—the film faced funding woes as a British-Jordanian-Iranian co-production. Anvari, drawing from his childhood memories of exiled family tales, insisted on Farsi dialogue and period-accurate props like rationed bread and propaganda posters. These details ground the ethereal, preventing the djinn from overshadowing human strife.

Influence ripples outward. Post-release, it inspired discussions on Middle Eastern horror’s rise, paving for films like A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night. Critics hailed its restraint—no gore, just mounting dread—contrasting Hollywood jump-scare reliance. Its 2016 Sundance premiere underscored global appetite for politically infused scares.

Spectral Soundscapes and Shadow Play

Sound design proves revelatory, crafted by Will Bates and Mark Henry. The score eschews bombast for subtlety: layered Persian lute motifs distort into dissonant wails, sirens bleed into djinn howls. A standout is the recurring whisper track—raspy, multilingual incantations—that burrows subliminally, mimicking auditory hallucinations reported by shell-shocked veterans. This auditory assault mirrors the film’s thesis: war’s noise desensitises, allowing quieter horrors to infiltrate.

Cinematographer Kit Fraser employs long takes and negative space masterfully. The apartment’s claustrophobia is accentuated by wide-angle lenses distorting doorframes, shadows elongating like grasping claws. Night scenes, lit by practical sources like kerosene lamps, foster paranoia; a djinn glimpse in a mirror reflection uses rack focus to jolt without excess. These choices homage Iranian New Wave subtlety while nodding to J-horror’s atmospheric dread.

Practical Phantoms: Effects That Haunt

Special effects prioritise illusion over CGI, aligning with the film’s low-fi ethos. The djinn manifests through practical means: wind machines whip dust into vortexes, puppetry animates levitating objects, and Rashidi’s contortions sell possession sans digital aid. A basement sequence employs forced perspective for a towering silhouette, its chador billowing via hidden fans—evocative, cost-effective terror reminiscent of early Hammer horrors.

Makeup artist Arianne Phillips aged Shideh subtly with ash smudges and sunken cheeks, reflecting sleepless vigils. No bloodletting; horror stems from implication—the doll’s eyeless stare, a child’s fevered drawings. This restraint amplifies impact, proving practical effects endure in evoking primal unease. Post-production VFX were minimal, confined to subtle aura glows, preserving tactile authenticity.

The film’s legacy endures in festival circuits and streaming, influencing arthouse horror’s global turn. It challenges Eurocentric genre norms, proving universal fears—loss, isolation—thrive in diverse soils. Under the Shadow lingers like shrapnel in memory, a testament to horror’s power in reclaiming silenced narratives.

Director in the Spotlight

Babak Anvari, born in Tehran in 1979 to a middle-class family, fled Iran with his parents during the 1979 Revolution’s aftermath, settling in London as political exiles. Raised amid stories of war and jinn from relatives, Anvari channelled this heritage into filmmaking. He studied at London’s City University, initially pursuing architecture before pivoting to cinema via short films. His 2014 short Sesat (also known as Under the Shadow prototype) premiered at Telluride, earning BAFTA nominations and alerting producers to his talent.

Anvari’s feature debut Under the Shadow (2016) garnered critical acclaim, including a BAFTA win for Best British Film and nominations at the London Film Critics’ Circle. It marked him as a voice in transnational horror. He followed with Wounds (2019), a metaphysical thriller starring Adam Nagaitis and Jessie Buckley, exploring digital-age paranoia via a cursed phone app; produced by A24, it premiered at Sundance. Apostasy (2022, uncredited involvement) touched religious extremism, but his sophomore feature The Dominion

no, wait—actually, Rock Paper Scissors (2021) anthology segment delved into familial curses.