Mixed messages: Andile (Kay Sibiya) and Jessica (Trix Vivier) in the second film in the series Umjolo: Day Ones. Photo: Netflix
Netflix’s mission to create more local rom-coms for South African audiences has been felt loud and clear in recent years.
The Umjolo film series is testament to the popularity of this genre among South African viewers. Though filled with storylines and character profiles typical of telenovelas, the innovation of a four-film series has been a success for award-winning production company Stained Glass.
Umjolo, a term that refers to dating or engaging in a romantic relationship, has, much like the recent countrywide floods, poured itself into the daily lexicon. Be it social media, books or film, we see many speak of the pain and joys of dating.
As Netflix South Africa’s first-ever film collection, Umjolo explores the love lives of four women navigating the complexities of relationships, commitment and self-discovery. A new film has been released each month since November, revealing a chapter in each woman’s journey.
Through event-planning maestro and hopeless romantic Lethu (Sibongiseni Shezi), and her fiancé Lucky (Tyson Mathonsi), the first film, Umjolo: The Gone Girl, looks at modern relationships and familiar themes such as infidelity resulting in sexually transmitted diseases.
The second, Umjolo: Day Ones, follows Andile (Kay Sibiya) and Jessica (Trix Vivier) in an interracial marriage. It questions whether a married man, such as Andile, can be best friends with a woman, Zanele (Sibusisiwe Jili), without crossing the boundary.
Umjolo: My Beginning, My End, my least favourite of the four, flimsily questions the marriage prospects of free-spirited Mayi (Nirvana Nokwe-Mseleku) caught between her family’s expectations and losing her freedom. After meeting Zweli (Yonda Thomas), a charming and passionate saxophonist, Mayi begins to question her upcoming nuptials.
Queer love and relationship anxieties for Nana (Busisiwe Mtshali) and Thoko (Londeka Sishi) is what the final film, Umjolo: There is No Cure, delightfully explores.
Due to the familiar cast and the locations in KwaZulu-Natal, the storyline and tone are reminiscent of Uzalo, another telenovela by Stained Glass.
Confusing connections
Umjolo: There is No Cure attempts to link with the other films’ narratives and characters. For instance, playboy Lucky from the first film goes on a date with Nana. In one scene we see Andile, Zanele and the kids happily playing in a park. The last act shows event organiser Lethu at the wedding of a wealthy family we met in the first and third films.
I kid you not, I developed troubling headaches trying to decipher this unnecessary entanglement of the films’ narratives. It’s an interesting concept but it ends up trying too hard to be innovative, resulting in confusion.
The average acting and unconvincing chemistry between the couples in all four films is nothing to write home about either. In fact, the most compelling chemistry was found in the friendships.
In the fourth film, Thoko and Buhle (Tina Redman) showcase support and connection between friends with Kuzolunga moments accompanied by hugs and smiles. Nana and Zweli’s friendship, in both the third and final films, is as heartwarming as coffee on an icy winter’s morning.
The bookstore they run is a celebration of the many small black businesses scattered across South Africa. Such creative enterprises are heavenly homes for African literature, quality coffee and live music.
The film’s narrator, Mam Sbosh (Sipho Alphi Mkhwanazi) is the only consistent thread in all four instalments. Creatively placed in between scenes, he provides comedic relief and a reminder of the overarching complexities in Mjoloville.
Love, lust and accountability
Despite some redeeming features, I failed to discern an overall purpose in these four films. There seems to be a worrying normalisation of unhealthy sexual behaviours and lustful decision-making, particular in black communities.
There is no clear call for responsibility in any of the films, especially among the male characters. Given South Africa’s high rates of problems such as divorce, gender-based violence and depression this should have been a consideration.
The series could have been an opportunity for the writers to reflect on the root causes of these social issues, instead of merely offering the same old script with better lighting and wardrobe.
Beyond films simply holding a mirror to society for the sake of entertainment, the chance to create different critical conversations on relationships is pertinent.
In addition, the franchise perpetuates the notion that black urban people occupy themselves with sex and soft-life pursuits.
In the first film, Umjolo: The Gone Girl, a wife excuses her husband’s cheating, even after he is publicly beaten up by the community and his mistress turns up at the marital home: “All men cheat.”
As long as the husband sleeps at home and provides, then all is miraculously forgiven, is the message.
Similarly, in the third instalment, Umjolo: My Beginning, My End, we see a wife’s anger towards her husband who has impregnated their house helper disarmed by expensive gifts and a luxurious lifestyle used to excuse the infidelity.
The four films’ failure to hold the male characters accountable for their marital affairs indirectly teaches other men and young boys that it’s acceptable to cause heartbreak, as long as a big bank account is available to remedy the situation.
In turn, it also suggests that women should tolerate infidelity for the sake of social status.
These themes litter media platforms, including shows like The Wife, Adulting and Soft Life. Hence, I wonder why the Umjolo films didn’t try harder to offer better ways to hold each other accountable in relationships and marriages.
The nonchalant handling of these troubling themes could bury some viewers in despondency towards love and marriage.
Essentially, the franchise’s message to local and global audiences is South African men cheat without consequence and the women are easily lured by money and lust.
The Umjolo series tries its best to offer a unique South African rom-com but instead dishes out mediocrity, with dull character chemistry, uninspired titles and disordered storylines. It fails to give critical insights into the deep socio-cultural reasons for the complexities in many dysfunctional relationships and marriages.
The four films do, however, leave viewers with open-ended questions to ponder on: Why do men cheat? Can married men be best friends with single women? At what cost can one go against social expectations to pursue one’s individuality? Is queer love understood and embraced enough in South Africa?