In a prison in Indonesia, a mysterious ghost begins brutally killing inmates, arranging their mutilated bodies into elaborate art installations. Who is responsible, and who will be next? As fear spreads through the cell block, prisoners must now band together to stop the murders while trying to keep their heads on their shoulders. Such is the premise of Ghost in the Cell, Joko Anwar’s latest horror comedy, which premiered at the 76th Berlin International Film Festival and later screened to an Italian audience at the 28th Far East Film Festival. Combining slapstick humour with graphic horror, the film proves to be a grim yet oddly delightful spectacle.

The majority of the action takes place in Cell Block C of Labuan Angsana prison, home to common criminals ranging from thieves to murderers. While most inmates try to keep their heads down, Anggoro (Abimana Aryasatya) repeatedly stands up to the cruelty of head guard Jefri (Bront Palarae). His righteousness marks him as a troublemaker, breeding resentment both among guards and fellow prisoners. When newcomer Dimas (Endy Arfian), a young journalist convicted of killing his boss, is brought under Anggoro’s wing, the instability between rival gangs deepens. Shortly after Dimas’ arrival, a wave of gruesome murders begins. Inmates are dismembered, mutilated, and displayed in ways that eerily reflect their lives before death. 

As inmates scramble to identify the killer, one of Anggoro’s crew suddenly gains the ability to see people’s auras. Initially dismissed as nonsense, this clairvoyance soon becomes a tool for survival. People with the darkest auras are revealed to be next in line for slaughter, and the only way to stay alive is to remain calm and joyful. During heated brawls, prisoners abruptly break into dance, twerking mid-fight to recalibrate their mood and protect their auras. Self-proclaimed atheists sprint to the prison’s lavishly decorated prayer room, pleading with any god that might be listening. The absurdity of these moments collides with the film’s violence, creating much of its dark comedic tension. 

The defining characteristic of Ghost in the Cell lies in its visual approach to brutality. Despite the relentless gore, there is an undeniable and unsettling beauty in how the violence is composed. Each corpse is well framed, with careful use of colour and lighting that transforms atrocity into grotesque sculpture. 

Unlike most horror films, the supernatural force remains largely unseen. The ghost’s presence is felt only through its devastating aftermath. This approach enables Anwar to use horror as a lens for the film’s broader social commentary. While chaos reigns in Cell Block C and guards abandon prisoners to their fate, inmates are pitted against one another in a system that is already stacked against them. Elsewhere in the complex, Cell Block K houses corrupt government officials who enjoy luxurious confinement. These privileged inmates use smartphones, watch television, and leave the prison grounds at will. Inside and outside prison walls, life remains comfortable for the powerful, while the disposable struggle merely to survive. 

With Ghost in the Cell, Anwar disarms the audience through humour before confronting them with an unsettling question: What does confinement truly mean? Is it simply physical imprisonment, or a system designed to punish the vulnerable while protecting those who already hold power? These questions persist beyond the film, just as the images it leaves behind.

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Written and interviewed by Yasmine Chan, who was part of the FEFF Campus initiative for emerging film industry talent.

Featured image courtesy of Far East Film Festival

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