Does Netflix's Blood and Water show the 'real' South Africa?

Neon lights dance across an infinity pool, while, inside an enormous mansion, couples canoodle in immaculate white corridors and the cool kids sneak away to smoke. At this kind of party, there are those who are recognised at the door and those who have to blag to get their name on the guestlist. As the birthday girl schmoozes with her guests, an awkward attendee does anything to escape the hubbub and keep her head down, as red cups pile up in the garden and a queue forms for the bar.

So far, so teen drama. But this isn’t London or LA: the two girls are Fikile Bhele and Puleng Khumalo, and the show is Blood and Water, set in South Africa. The second African series produced and released by Netflix, it focuses on the class divide between private Parkhurst school in Cape Town and its unnamed public counterpart, as well as Khumalo’s search for her missing sister. Like many dramas aimed at younger viewers, the first instalment kicks off in the midst of a debauched, booze-soaked gathering before branching out into the dark underbelly of popularity – think student-teacher relationships and moneyed parents wielding their power in the education system in the form of “donations”.

Where it might have once seemed strange to see a South African teen drama on Netflix, Blood and Water is part of a huge foray into the continent for the streaming service. The show, which was in the streaming service’s Top 10 in the US, UK and France within its first week of release, followed spy thriller Queen Sono and the vigilante drama Shadow.

Scouting for talent on the ground before partnering with the region’s creative organisations to bring it’s ideas to the screen, Netflix’s strategy is clearly international but the stories are rooted in the people local to each region. A Nigerian original series is in the works, and the company’s head of African original programming, Dorothy Ghettuba, who is from Kenya, has said that her home country has “promise” for Netflix.

Enabling South African talent to tap into much-needed funding and exposure, Netflix titles are a representational accolade for those awaiting a “come-up”. The film-maker Tsogo Kupa traces a pattern of consumption to explain why South Africa is a prime choice for the business. “Part of the reason Netflix is so welcomed is because there is now another place to get your money,” says Kupa, as well gaining as “the western stamp of approval”. In addition to necessary marketing, Netflix covers much of the non-production related activity that a local production simply can’t match.

He compares Blood and Water with its local counterpart Grassroots, which airs on the DS.TV channel Mzansi Magic. The two share similar plotlines, but Grassroots grapples with the quips and nuances of social life in South Africa – private schools are explored as “vestiges of apartheid” with “strict rules regarding race, gender expression and of course – hair”. “The difference between shows such as Queen Sono, Blood and Water and content produced locally is like night and day in terms of the type of South Africa you see,” he says. While the soundtrack is an important part of the series, championing local musicians, such as Sho Madjozi (Tsonga singer of the viral John Cena song), Blood and Water has more in common with Riverdale and Gossip Girl than it does with Grassroots.

What Blood and Water lacks in overtly South African character, Queen Sono makes up for, painting a hard-hitting portrait of Johannesburg. For those who are averse to poor dubbing, hearing the rhythm of Zulu, Afrikaans and Swahili is a welcome change, although the majority of the series is in English. However, like Blood and Water, at times the plot is more concerned with sharp twists and turns than coherency. Centred on the secret life of a spy, Queen Sono (Pearl Thusi), the clash between her personal and professional life is at times a bit too unbelievable, as she leaps over fruit stalls in markets and sneaks into the swanky dinners with crooked politicians. However, Kupa reveals an interesting bit of information about the series: the final scene, depicting the explosion of the Johannesburg Park station, speaks directly to the nation’s history of apartheid. In 1964, Frederick Harris of the African Resistance Movement planted a bomb on a “whites-only” platform.

Building on the legacy of several popular web series released in 2017, these commissions are in part a culmination of the innovative efforts of young South African film-makers who initially found themselves bound by lack of government funding. The unprecedented success of previous independent series such as The Foxy Five – which explores intersectional feminism in solidarity with the 2016 Pretoria High School for Girls protests in which black students were instructed to “tame” their hair – shows a South African film-making scene that shares a refusal to go quietly in unfavourable conditions. Along with MTV’s educational Shuga series, the shows offered relatable teen drama and kickstarted conversations for young audiences on sexual health, consent, relationships and sexuality. Together, they paved the way for Netflix, by proving there is a responsive audience ready for more.

Perhaps naturally, those involved with such projects also have questions around the authenticity of the streaming giant’s commissions. Jabu Nadia Newman, the creator of The Foxy Five, says of Blood and Water that she felt “like Netflix was taking American storytelling and placing it in a South African context”. Newman celebrates their duality, on one hand for their entertainment value and on another for being true to some experiences, but says that “[the makers] constantly face the danger of the single story”, of looking at things in an un-nuanced way. For film-makers to put themselves at the forefront of this change, she believes there must be more government funding, adding: “There needs to be much more camaraderie, solidarity and support for each other. Because they’re only commissioning a few of us, we have to hustle.” While Newman says that creators are grateful for Netflix’s arrival, for many the move into South Africa feels like something of an afterthought.

And, clearly, commerciality cannot be the only standard that film-makers aspire to. Ghettuba summarises the vision of Netflix in Africa as “[celebrating] stories made by Africans, watched by the world”. “We commission based on human intuition and judgment. We give talent the freedom to tell those stories – some of which have never been seen before – exactly how they want,” says Ghettuba. While making shows with a global resonance is a clear goal, Netflix’s approach to this is one that, in theory, refuses to leave the people on the ground behind. However, the implicit distinction between an “African” audience v “the world” at large may cause film-makers to feel that their stories must be diluted to make them more palatable and relatable for a Western audience.

Netflix’s presence in Africa appears part of a longer-term strategy rather than a short-lived, exotic dalliance and that in itself is hopeful. However, there is also a lack of cultural specificity; writing in the New York Times, Mike Hale said of Blood and Water: “It’s easy to forget where you are, in between shots of Table Mountain.” As Netflix continues to make its mark, its next challenge will be bridging the gap between those flashy party scenes and the very real streets outside.