Baramulla review: Manav Kaul's film blends supernatural horror and political grief in a haunting Kashmir tale

Aditya Suhas Jambhale’s Baramulla is a hauntingly atmospheric blend of supernatural horror, psychological tension, and political commentary set against the snow-clad backdrop of Kashmir.

Starring the ever-versatile Manav Kaul as Deputy Superintendent of Police Ridwaan Sayyed, the film explores a town plagued by the mysterious disappearances of children—an investigation that gradually pulls the protagonist and his family into an ever-tightening web of terror.

Now streaming on Netflix, Baramulla stands out for its masterful cinematography, layered writing, and an underlying sense of dread that lingers long after the credits roll.

Baramulla review

From its opening sequence, the film establishes a chilling tone that is both gripping and unsettling. The constant interplay of white and grey—the recurring white flower, the snowfall, and the pale, washed-out hues of the cinematography—creates an almost spectral quality.

The whiteness is not a symbol of purity here, but of emptiness, loss, and the erasure of innocence. This visual language keeps viewers on edge, never letting them relax into the comfort of familiarity.

The cold, almost sterile atmosphere mirrors the emotional detachment of Ridwaan himself, whose world is about to collapse under the weight of the horrors he uncovers.

While terrorism and political unrest form the film’s undercurrent, Baramulla never loses sight of its core mystery: the missing children. The disappearances remain the narrative’s beating heart, grounding the story in something deeply human amidst the chaos of larger geopolitical forces.

Manav Kaul’s Ridwaan is a man of logic and order, thrown into a situation that defies both. His assignment—to find the abducted children and restore peace—becomes increasingly personal as his own family becomes entangled in the dark forces haunting the town.

Manav Kaul delivers a performance that is quietly powerful and emotionally layered. Known for his ability to inhabit complex characters, he once again proves his mettle here.

His portrayal of Ridwaan is restrained, almost stoic, yet in his eyes one can see a deep anguish. Opposite him, Bhasha Sumbli as Gulnaar—his wife—anchors the emotional core of the story. She is the stillness in the storm, the bridge between Ridwaan and their children, Ayaan and Noorie. Her calm presence contrasts beautifully with the chaos that envelops their world, giving the film a tender domestic tension amidst its supernatural dread.

The strained relationship between Ridwaan and his daughter Noorie is one of the film’s most compelling arcs. Haunted by an incident from the past, Ridwaan struggles to connect with her—a subplot that adds emotional depth to his character.

When Noorie becomes a target of the same mysterious force, his personal and professional worlds collide, forcing him to confront not only the external evil but also his own guilt and detachment.

Credit must be given to the film’s writing team—Aditya Dhar, Aditya Suhas Jambhale, and Monal Thaakar—for crafting a screenplay that balances multiple subplots without losing narrative cohesion.

Despite juggling themes of folklore, politics, and horror, the script never feels disjointed. The pacing is deliberate, allowing the tension to simmer rather than explode, which makes the eventual revelations all the more impactful.

Beyond its eerie atmosphere, Baramulla also grapples with historical trauma. It addresses the 1991 exodus of Kashmiri Pandits—an event that displaced thousands and remains one of the most painful chapters in India’s recent history.

The film doesn’t shy away from this political dimension, weaving it subtly into the supernatural narrative. Some viewers might find these political undertones difficult to ignore, but they lend Baramulla a sense of urgency and authenticity. The horror here is not just spectral—it is social and historical.

Technically, the film is a triumph. The cinematography captures Kashmir’s haunting beauty with precision, the sound design amplifies its pervasive sense of dread, and the sparse yet effective score heightens the unease. Together, they create an immersive sensory experience that draws you into the psychological landscape of fear and loss.

Ultimately, Baramulla is more than a horror film—it is a reflection on grief, displacement, and the unseen forces that fracture both families and nations. Jambhale’s direction, combined with Kaul’s nuanced performance and a deftly written script, makes this a rare supernatural thriller that manages to be both emotionally resonant and politically charged.

All in all, Baramulla is a must-watch. It’s chilling, beautifully made, and thought-provoking—a film that dares to look into the abyss and asks what happens when the ghosts of the past refuse to stay buried.