Furthermore, Anwar weaponizes the specific religious and cultural context of Indonesia. Unlike Western horror, which often pits a lone protagonist against a demonic entity, Pengabdi Setan emphasizes gotong royong (mutual cooperation) and the power of collective prayer. The climax does not feature a hero with a gun or a holy relic, but rather a desperate communal act of faith. The children’s vulnerability is heightened by the fact that they live in a Muslim-majority society where supernatural beliefs ( gunan-gunan or black magic) are often viewed as a palpable, if taboo, reality. The horror emerges from the liminal space between orthodox religion and local mysticism—the mother sold herself not to Iblis in a theological sense, but to a worldly promise of fame, a secular devil. The film asks a difficult question: What happens when a family’s devotion to a parent outweighs their devotion to God?
In conclusion, Pengabdi Setan is a landmark film that redefines what Indonesian horror can be. It is a genre exercise that refuses to sacrifice intelligence for terror. By weaving together a homage to cinema history, a critique of parental failure, and a deep engagement with Islamic and folkloric beliefs, Joko Anwar creates a haunting experience that lingers long after the credits roll. The film ultimately suggests that the most terrifying servants of Satan are not the ghouls in the graveyard, but the unfulfilled desires and broken promises that haunt the living rooms of a family in crisis. It is a masterpiece of modern horror because it remembers that the best ghosts are never just ghosts; they are mirrors reflecting our own deepest fears of losing the ones we love, and worse, discovering that they may have sold us away long before they died. pengabdi setan
In the landscape of contemporary Southeast Asian cinema, few films have achieved the critical and commercial resonance of Joko Anwar’s Pengabdi Setan (2017). A loose remake of Sisworo Gautama Putra’s 1980 cult classic, Anwar’s film transcends the typical boundaries of the horror genre. It is not merely a collection of jump scares and ghostly apparitions; rather, it is a meticulously crafted tapestry of national cinematic history, post-colonial anxiety, and the fragility of faith in the face of overwhelming familial and economic trauma. Pengabdi Setan succeeds because it grounds its supernatural terror in the very real, visceral horrors of grief, poverty, and the disintegration of the family unit. The children’s vulnerability is heightened by the fact
One of the film’s most profound achievements is its role as a self-aware revival of Indonesian horror’s golden age. The original 1980 film, starring the iconic Suzzanna, is embedded in the nation’s collective memory. Anwar pays homage not through cheap imitation but through a sophisticated reconstruction. By setting the film in the 1980s—a period of economic modernity clashing with traditional mysticism—he creates an anachronistic space that feels both nostalgic and alien. The use of the original film’s haunting lullaby, along with the visual motif of the masked, shrouded Mother, serves as a bridge between past and present. This meta-cinematic layer invites audiences to remember a foundational text while simultaneously being terrified by a modern one, thus re-legitimizing folk horror as a serious artistic vehicle in Indonesia. In conclusion, Pengabdi Setan is a landmark film
At its core, Pengabdi Setan is a narrative about the failure of the patriarch and the consequent burden placed upon the matriarch and children. The story follows the Suwono family, living in a remote house with their bedridden, formerly famous singer mother. When the mother dies, strange events begin to unfold, revealing that she had made a pact with dark forces to sustain her failing career. The father, a stoic and emotionally distant figure, is largely absent or ineffective. His inability to protect his family forces the eldest son, Rini, into a premature role as caretaker. The film brilliantly inverts the typical horror trope of the haunted house: the danger is not an external invader, but the lingering contract of a parent who chose fame and material success over spiritual safety. The terror, therefore, is inherited. It is the debt of the mother’s ambition that the children must pay, a potent allegory for the sins of the previous generation bleeding into the next.
Visually, Joko Anwar employs a masterful control of silence and sound. The rural, rain-soaked setting becomes a character in itself—isolated, decaying, and oppressive. The cinematography frequently traps the characters in the frame’s corners, emphasizing their lack of agency. Yet, the true genius lies in the auditory design: the eerie whisper of the mother’s song, the metallic scrape of her fingernails, and the shocking silence that precedes a jump scare. This sensory deprivation mimics the family’s own isolation, forcing the audience to feel their helplessness as they realize that the only way to stop the Pengabdi Setan (the servants of Satan) is not to fight, but to sing—to complete the very act of vanity that damned their mother in the first place.