Adamkhor Haseena (2002)

Adamkhor Haseena opens with a newlywed couple driving enthusiastically toward a scenic guest house for their honeymoon, their libidos already operating at dangerously uncontrollable levels long before reaching the destination.

Unfortunately, in the grand tradition of Indian horror cinema, the route happens to pass through a deeply ominous forest — the sort of forest where absolutely nobody should stop for romance under any circumstances whatsoever.

After prolonged necking, groping, and recklessly distracted driving, the couple finally decide to pull over for what might politely be described as a “rest break.”

This proves catastrophic.

Moments into proceedings, grotesque demons suddenly emerge from the woods and drag poor Roopa away screaming while her helpless husband stumbles after them in panic. One particularly horrifying monster sporting a miniature head protruding grotesquely from his forehead repeatedly materialises out of nowhere with relentless determination.

It is genuinely one of the more inspired rubber-monster designs in low-budget Indian horror.

Poor Roopa then undergoes what can only be described as an The Evil Dead-style assault by the forest itself before being possessed by a ragingly lustful ancient witch hidden deep within the woods.

The witch — a gloriously rubber-masked old hag overflowing with demonic libido — seizes Roopa’s youthful body in order to continue satisfying her endless appetites. Once possessed, Roopa develops full-blown supernatural powers including deadly “Carrie-like” death stares, demonic scowling fits, and the ability to emit showers of spark-like energy from her mouth whenever particularly irritated.

Which, naturally, happens frequently.

From there the film descends gleefully into utter madness as the possessed Roopa and the ancient hag begin luring men into a series of increasingly bizarre seductions before murdering and devouring them raw once their lust has been satisfied.

It is all magnificently tasteless.

The witch herself commands a small army of monstrous assistants who help carry out her wicked schemes. Chief among them is a demon suffering from perhaps the worst skin condition in cinematic history — a fearsome creature whose face resembles a volcanic landslide. One suspects schoolchildren would have mercilessly nicknamed him “Wart-Face” had he attended normal education.

This unfortunate demon spends much of the film battling the local Tantrik, whose own daughter has apparently fallen victim to the witch’s leather-faced henchmen.

The resulting confrontations between demon and Tantrik are glorious spectacles of shrieking chaos, magical combat, and wonderfully cheap supernatural effects.

Meanwhile, the film pauses regularly for highly enthusiastic romantic interludes involving vigorous leg-rubbing, awkward kissing, and assorted seduction scenes that somehow contributed to the film reportedly being banned temporarily from cinemas.

In truth, by modern standards, the material is relatively tame — though undeniably enthusiastic.

Particular mention must go to one hilariously oversexed supporting character who punctuates virtually every sentence with the phrase:
“…full of sex.”

“What a face… so full of sex.”
“What legs… so full of sex.”

One rather wishes all film criticism adopted similar terminology.

A delightful guest appearance from a cheerful Sardarji at a roadside tea stall further enriches the experience, while the songs themselves are surprisingly effective and mercifully well-integrated into the film rather than merely existing to pad the runtime.

As the body count rises and supernatural forces intensify, matters build toward a colossal final showdown between the heroic Tantrik and the forces of evil. Summoning divine symbols including:

• a Trishul,
• an Om,
• an Allah medallion,
• a Cross,
• and a mighty sword,

the Tantrik launches an all-out spiritual assault against the witch and her monstrous accomplices.

The climax is magnificent.

Thunderously absurd, gloriously overblown, and delivered with complete sincerity — exactly as this sort of cinema should be.

The fact that the film proudly carries the immortal stamp:
“Conceived, Written and Produced by Joginder”
only further confirms its pedigree as a work of supreme cult artistry.

Poonam Dasgupta is genuinely excellent as Roopa, throwing herself into the madness with complete conviction. Some of her dialogue achieves near-poetic greatness, particularly the immortal line:

“Shaadi se pehle tum ne jab mujhe kamray mein pakra tha, to meri choli ke button toot gaye they!”

Moments like this simply cannot be manufactured artificially.

The film’s special effects are spectacularly crude yet strangely effective, evoking memories of the gloriously primitive nightmare imagery found in the works of José Mojica Marins and his legendary Coffin Joe films.

The rubber masks are inspired, the old Hag especially so.

Yes, the film occasionally drags and repeats itself along the way, but the sheer enthusiasm powering the production ultimately overwhelms such shortcomings.

This is cinema operating on pure delirious energy.

Unashamedly dreadful.
Frequently ridiculous.
Occasionally thrilling.
And completely impossible to dislike if one possesses even the slightest affection for gloriously demented cult horror.

Some sequences strongly recall the magnificent madness of Harinam Singh at his most unhinged — which is among the highest compliments one can possibly offer this genre.

Adamkhor Haseena is an outrageous, hypnotic, rubber-monster-fuelled fever dream of a film.

Utterly atrocious.

And utterly marvellous because of it.