Qatil Chandalini (1998)

The tale begins with aspiring beauty queen Poonam being dropped off by her boyfriend at a remote clearing deep within a forest. Hidden somewhere beyond the trees lies an isolated haveli where, we are informed, promising young contestants are supposedly trained and refined into future Miss India finalists.

Quite why a prestigious beauty academy would operate from a crumbling mansion in the middle of nowhere is never adequately explained, but then logic is not among this film’s primary concerns.

Soon Poonam finds herself joined by Miss Bombay, Miss Delhi and Miss Calcutta, three young hopefuls who appear to have been selected less for their talents than for their willingness to wander unescorted into obvious danger.

Upon arrival they are greeted by a sinister old caretaker played by horror stalwart Mac Mohan, who spends most of the film looking like a bargain-basement version of Renfield.

The girls are introduced to their instructors, who deliver stirring speeches about discipline, courage and dedication before commencing an intensive programme of beauty training. Before long the contestants are performing synchronised dance routines and singing cheerful songs, apparently convinced that these activities alone will guarantee victory in the Miss India competition.

Initially the girls are fiercely competitive, but soon develop a sisterly bond so profound that they decide whoever wins the crown should share it equally with the others. It is a touching sentiment, albeit one unlikely to survive contact with an actual beauty pageant.

Unfortunately our suspicions are soon confirmed.

The finishing school is no finishing school at all but merely a front for a gang of sleazy exploiters producing illicit films for profit. After what feels like an eternity of padding, song sequences and aimless wandering, the first contestant is attacked by the caretaker, assaulted and murdered.

The second girl soon suffers a similar fate at the hands of another member of the supposedly respectable training staff.

Eventually the final survivor discovers a videotape exposing the operation, but rather than escaping immediately she too falls victim to the villains and is dispatched in equally grim fashion.

At this point the film abruptly remembers that it was advertised as a horror movie.

Fortunately for the heroine, a group of followers of a local holy man discover her body and, through a combination of devotional singing and supernatural intervention, succeed in bringing her back to life. There is a minor complication involving a curse that leaves her temporarily immobilised, but after additional quantities of spiritual mumbo-jumbo she is restored to full health and ready for revenge.

From there onward the film follows a well-worn path as the resurrected beauty sets out to avenge herself and her murdered companions.

The basic premise amounts to a low-rent variation on I Spit On Your Grave with a sprinkling of sadhus, curses and supernatural revenge added for local flavour. Unfortunately the result is every bit as tedious as that description suggests.

The greatest deception of all is the title.

Despite being marketed as a horror film, there is precious little horror on display. No memorable monster, no effective suspense, virtually no atmosphere and scarcely any blood. Instead the film relies almost entirely upon exploitative situations, endless filler and an assortment of dreary song sequences.

The production values are rock-bottom, the acting often embarrassing and the direction displays no noticeable flair whatsoever.

Films like this help explain why the Bollywood horror boom that flourished during the 1980s collapsed so dramatically during the following decade. Watching Qatil Chandalini today, one gains a new appreciation for the Ramsay Brothers. Their films may have been crude, but at least they possessed imagination, energy and a genuine affection for the genre.

Qatil Chandalini possesses none of those qualities. It is not frightening, suspenseful, entertaining or even unintentionally amusing often enough to justify its running time.

A thoroughly worthless exercise and among the weakest products of the post-Ramsay horror wilderness.