Female rage is a core fascination of supernatural cinema. In the real world, many women lack the power to express their anger openly—through words or action. The supernatural, then, becomes a vehicle to give voice to that suppressed rage, imagining a space where women can fight back. Vishal Furia has consistently explored gendered violence, portraying women as survivors who resist. His earlier work, Marathi film Lapachhapi (2017), centres a pregnant woman returning to a village engulfed by sugarcane fields and grappling with the haunting reality of female infanticide.
Furia leans into the cinematic device of place-as-character where Shuvankar (Indraneil Sengupta)’s rajbari (ancestral home) in Chandrapur stands at the core. Reminiscent of the quote “What is home if not the first place you learn to run from”, its decaying grandeur and the unruly jungle form an organism—oppressive and alive, that consumes everything it touches. The natural, verdant setting evokes a strong connection to foliage, echoing the director’s sustained engagement with such environments. Maa’s mansion is reminiscent of the forest-covered fortress in Tumbbad (2018), where the geography itself becomes the axis of inherited suffering. In a more contemporary vein, 13B (2009) comes to mind, where the flat transforms into a vessel for all that is doomed, or the entire town in Stree (2018), which is shadowed by a spirit.
Themes of homecoming and ancestral return have long found fertile ground in the cinematic portrayal of Kolkata and broader West Bengal. Piku (2015), for instance, returns to her rajbari, forging a connection with her roots and grappling with her father’s past. Similarly, Kahaani (2012) sees its protagonist returning to Kolkata in search of her missing husband. Much like the haunted haveli and forests in Bulbbul (2020) also set in West Bengal, Maa taps into the cinematic motif of the mansion as a past that festers. But in doing so, it treads an overfamiliar path, offering little that hasn’t already been said. The ancestral home calls them back from Kolkata—drawn in by the brute pull of horror film logic, even as the consequences loom clear. Ambika is forced to confront her husband’s buried lineage, while shielding her daughter Shweta (Kherin Sharma) and the village girls who have begun to vanish one by one. Their fates unravel, threaded through legacy, silence, and a haunting that refuses to stay buried.
Lupachhupi (2017)—which Furia later adapted into Chhori (2021) and Chhori 2 (2025)—also centres a malevolent, misogynistic spirit that relentlessly targets women. This motif resonates with series like Khauf (2025) and films such as Pari (2018), where supernatural forces seek dominion over women’s bodies. Pari’s demonic entity, bent on sacrificing women and abusing them to birth devilish offsprings, finds a strong parallel in Maa’s narrative. Inspired by the gripping mythological premise of the Rakhtbeej and Maa Kali tale, the storytelling in Maa underwhelmingly borders on generic gender-horror and supernatural tropes. The reliance on jump scares undermines the psychological complexity audiences expect. The VFX at times appears gimmicky, yet adds to the eerie and unreal atmosphere. Furia’s practical effects work, but they often feel undermined by weak writing, which resists delivering impact and instead comes across as spoonfed and forced.
Maa attempts both successfully and unsuccessfully—as a pointed mythological commentary on the global denial of women’s reproductive rights. It is well-intended in critiquing the ways in which men seek to control women’s agency, reducing them to serving men and valued only when they can be mothers. Ambika (Kajol), as an all-encompassing figure, reminds one of Sridevi’s fierce persistence in Mom (2017), where the defining drive is to protect and avenge her child. The question this film raises is, in seeking to redeem women, are we inadvertently limiting their identity to motherhood alone? Ambika’s character may appear one-dimensional, solely devoted to saving her child. Yet, this is not a flaw but a mirror to lived experience—where motherhood often eclipses all else, leaving little space for identity beyond it.
Maa echoes the spirit of Kahaani (2012), where Vidya Bagchi moves through a sea of women in red and white sarees during Durga Puja, their chants swelling as sindoor covers her—transforming her into a living embodiment of the goddess in pursuit of justice. Ambika carries the same rage—it feels earned and quite powerful to witness. What Maa foregrounds quite well is the firm assertion that only women can save other women from patriarchy. There’s no recourse to male saviours, no idealised figure of a good man as a way out. The burden and the power of resistance rest with women alone. Whether it’s Maa, Bulbbul or Khauf, the narrative choice—to centre female solidarity as the only viable rescue—is both deliberate and compelling.
Visually striking, with a grimy, ancient jungle and strong moments from Kajol, the film falters in writing. It relies on heavy exposition to fill gaps and depends on jump scares, making it feel formulaic despite the director’s experience. Though made with passion and featuring compelling performances, its moral themes feel outdated and regressive. While mythology remains a powerful tool, Maa calls for fresher, more purposeful use to elevate its storytelling.
Sakshi Salil Chavan is a documentary filmmaker and an entertainment writer based in Mumbai.
