There are two major schools of literature that explore the post-war experience – the first are those that look at the literal destruction caused by conflict, whether it be physical in the form of cities ravaged by warfare, or the more long-lasting kind, which focuses on the social and economic changes. The second category contains those that look at more abstract concepts of the aftermath of violent conflict, where the emotional and mental turmoil of those that fought are placed at the centre, with these stories exploring their lives after leaving battles, and their struggles in assimilating back into society. Both are the foundation for After the Curfew (Indonesian: Lewat Djam Malam), the powerful drama by director Usmar Ismail, who puts together a harrowing account of a man returning home after the Indonesian war of independence, only to find that it is far more difficult to re-adapt to a society that has changed considerably since he has left. Poignant, heartwrenching and beautifully made, the film earns its reputation as a pioneering work of Indonesian national cinema, a proud moment for a nation that has been mostly ignored when it comes to voices on the world cinema’s stage. As Ismail proves throughout the film, it’s often the most intimate stories that hit the hardest, and through this small but complex psychological drama, the director is given the platform to be able to deliver an abundance of unforgettable moments that speak to both the horrors of war, and the actions conducted in the aftermath of conflict, which can sometimes be just as unsettling in how they demonstrate a very different side of life.

After the Curfew is a film that paints a very dark picture of humanity, in both theory and application. The human condition tends to be a central concept in films focused on warfare, particularly those that aren’t involved in the conflict itself, but rather the circumstances surrounding it, including the aftermath. There’s a tendency for war literature to romanticize the concept of returning home from war, and while this is a logical decision in most cases (since it signals a return to a time of tranquillity), it’s not nearly as peaceful as many would imagine, since these soldiers move from physical warfare to fighting a battle with their own minds, haunted by memories of the past. This is where Ismail truly makes the most significant impression throughout the film, showing how the protagonist is a man who wishes to return to his life before the war, but is weighed down by trauma, not only the injustices he saw occurring around him, but also the heinous actions he was forced to commit in the name of his national duty, which continue to linger with him, regardless of the effort he makes to move beyond them. Returning home can be a difficult experience for soldiers, which is well-documented in nearly every realistic text that looks at the survivors of a war, and how difficult (if not entirely impossible) it is to return to ordinary life after being part of the institutional machinery that sought to assert its power over another group, which is all that war essentially is when we break it down beyond the indelible images associated with it, and which is what Ismail was aiming to accomplish when setting out to tell this harrowing story.

Not much is known about Ismail outside of his native Indonesia, but based on what we do know about his life, is the fact that he was a soldier during the war depicted here, and therefore was a notable authority on the post-war life. It’s easy to see how he was speaking from a place of genuine experience, with some of the subject matter throughout this film being oddly dark, even for a film that covers such challenging material. This is clearly a film made by someone with a close personal connection to the story, and working with screenwriter Asrul Sani, Ismail forms a powerful yet intimate odyssey into the mind of a man returning home to war, and his growing despair at observing how everything has changed. A question that is always asked in relation to such stories is whether society truly did change in the few years that he was away, or if it was his mindset that shifted as a result of the trauma he acquired after being involved in the war, which has been shown to change one’s perception of society, even one that they knew well. After the Curfew doesn’t offer any resolution towards this question, being more focused on the observational nature of the story – Ismail clearly doesn’t have a particularly strong agenda in terms of convincing us to the horrors of war (like any good filmmaker, he gives the audience the benefit of the doubt in knowing that warfare is not something to be celebrated in any regard), and thus actively avoids any kind of jingoistic rambling. He keeps everything clear and concise, allowing the story to speak for itself while inserting his own perspective where it matters, which elevates this film and makes it one of the most genuinely moving and hauntingly effective accounts of the aftermath of war from that era.

The concept of “home” is very different to someone returning from war – in theory, it should be a place of comfort that relates to the concept of peace and comfort. However, After the Curfew demonstrates how challenging it can be for someone to work their way back into society. Despite not showing any actual conflict, the film still takes the form of a war film, insofar as there is a very clear battle being fought here, and the main character of Iskandar, played magnificently by A.N. Alcaff, remains a fiercely committed soldier, with his fight now being one much closer to his heart, since it is about battling his own demons, as well as the growing injustices that occur around him, which impact those closest to him. It’s a fascinating contrast, and Ismail makes sure to clarify that this film may theoretically be taking place in a time of peace on a political level, but there were social wars that continued to rage long after the final rifles were set down, and unlike more traditional conflicts, the concept of a war hero was non-existent, replaced solely with those who took matters into their own hands, rather than standing back and watching as their lives become the subject of the malicious machinations of others. It’s a complex approach, and it’s one that works much better in terms of how the director portrays it than it does when we put it into words. Ismail relies very heavily on the emotion that comes through in the images, and whether it be the simple but gorgeous portrayal of a small Indonesian town that the main character returns to, or the distant look of despair reflected in the expression of his fiancee (portrayed by Netty Herawaty, who makes the film her own in only a few short scenes), there’s incredible depth to this film.

Heraway’s performance in particular leaves an indelible impression, considering how she is a relatively minor character, really only existing at the start as one of the few sources of joy for the protagonist on his return home, but grows into the most tragic of them all, shown in her growing realization that the man she waited for has actually changed beyond repair. Many films focus on the challenges of someone coming home, but fewer actually look at the impact their return has on their families, especially when dealing with someone who has been traumatized beyond the point of comprehension. There’s a degree of nurturing that goes into helping someone re-enter society, but when they’ve been put through as horrifying an experience as having to kill others for the sake of a country that ultimately considered them expendable pawns in their game of strategy, it’s often difficult to reason with the mind of someone who has grown unfortunately accustomed to the darker recesses of life. There’s a weight to these experiences that Ismail portrays so beautifully, finding the right balance between hard-hitting social commentary and more intimate character-driven drama. There’s not really any political message to this film, which functions as an indictment on war as a concept in general, each moment feeling like a rich, complex exploration of war as a deeper cultural issue, rather than just an opportunity for feuding groups to exert their power in increasingly unsettling ways. 

After the Curfew is a powerful film, and one that should not be taken lightly. Despite the simplicity of the production making it seem like a smaller film, or the fact that not many Indonesian films have been able to penetrate into the discussion of meaningful portrayals of post-war trauma, Ismail made a film that reflects some striking ideas that are difficult to overlook, especially when we’re taking it from the perspective of not only the shell-shocked veterans returning home, but the people they had to leave behind, who are often presented with the unfortunate discovery that their loved ones are no longer the people they were before they left, and even the most well-adjusted veteran is likely to carry scars, both physical and mental. Ultimately, After the Curfew is an unsettling work of post-war tragedy, represented on film by a director who knew all too well the challenges that those who survived a war had to face when trying to go back to ordinary life, if such a concept actually exists for them. Heartbreaking, harrowing and deeply disconcerting, but also poetic in how it is deeply humane and honest in its portrayal of the main characters’ struggles in post-war Indonesia, the film is a masterful achievement, and one of the most impactful films on the subject of war ever produced, proving that even without a single scene set on a battlefield, it’s still possible to comment on the atrocity of war, and how its effects are far more widespread than simply the more well-known theatres of combat, extending into the domestic sphere in ways that are often far more terrifying and heartbreaking.