‘Bad Influencer’ Review: South Africa’s Satirical Take on the Decadence of Influencer Culture

South African Netflix is on a roll, with every month seemingly offering another blend from its growing catalogue. Bad Influencer, its latest addition, is just as ambitious in scale, and once again relying on its tried-and-proven formula of a layered slice of South African society set against a criminal undercurrent, all while introducing a revolving door of fresh talent alongside familiar faces.

Created by Zimbabwean filmmaker Kudi Maradzika, the series is the first project from the Realness Institute’s Episodic Lab, a talent incubator for African screenwriters.

Following two women who join forces to run a counterfeit handbag business, Bad Influencer dives into the social decadence of Johannesburg’s influencer culture: the designer wear, the stylised chaos, and the glittering moral collapse that glows around it. With a fictional twist on the already booming appetite for reality television across Africa and the world over, the show is primed to rouse the full dramatic pulse for an audience already addicted to this kind of content.

It opens in a luxury store introducing the two main leads: BK (Jo-Anne Reyneke, Scandal!) on a scouting escapade for a designer handbag to replicate, and the raucous Pinky (Cindy Mahlangu, Kings of Jo’Burg) trying to exchange a fake bag she didn’t know was fake. The show instantly draws out the diametric worlds of its characters; one bursting with the condescending elegance of wealthy exuberance, the other side bound by economic hardship and criminal persuasion. The first episode sets the tone with its fast-paced spark that hastily forces these two characters together, but it delivers with acute charm and coherence, the full flair and escalating stakes they are flushed into.

Bad Influencer finds an immediate and stable balance in drawing out the stories of these two women against their complementary and often interlocking personalities. The steady and resilient BK navigates deeper into the business and menace of a criminal syndicate, while Pinky slowly unravels from her sheltered shell into the struggles and misadventures of self-reliance and a newfound sense of worth.

Together, their camaraderie holds up an otherwise improbable at best, hilarious at worst, string of micro-missions and plot lines that play out through the brooding huffs of criminals and the bland expressiveness of social media hysteria. Despite the misgivings of its hastened pacing, much of the show’s progression deepens the tension and relationships with surprising ease. Across the board, each actor brings their own distinctive energy, giving a universal texture to characters drifting in and out of their local dialect, and simplifying the show’s less developed threads.

For a show clearly born from the norms and virtues of fast-paced reels and TikTok appeal, the editing and sound design lean heavily into this new media tempo. Scenes are sliced into rhythm, with intentional visual and musical bites thrown in to rejuvenate drawn-out sequences. Much of the storytelling unfolds through perceptible inferences built up from the set designs and unmistakable directing cues; the dialogue merely spices an already comprehensible narrative. Where this might be a flaw for most other shows, for Bad Influencer, this style feels perfectly in harmony with the minced flamboyance it’s clearly depicting.

Perhaps the most satisfying aspect of Bad Influencer is how fully it leans into the slow, deliberate debasement of BK, played with many different masks by Jo-Anne Reyneke. Where other shows struggle to fully reimagine the “innocent-single-mother-turned-criminal” trope – one of Netflix’s most used – Bad Influencer deconstructs the many layers of this main character enough to unite its differing stylistic impulses. BK is, in many ways, a Mary Sue: easily bending the sensibilities of both the other characters and the audience to her side, excused as the struggle of a single mother regardless of the gravity of her immorality. These aspects of her flawed perspective, though at times rushed to make room for the show’s relentless momentum, provide the emotional core that binds the chaos together.

Bad Influencer ends with a finale punctuated by a speech that, though complimenting its entertainment value, also lands with satirical amusement and irony at how easily emotions can be manufactured by slapping a feminist tag on any product, however counterfeit, and selling it to the highest bidder.

Delivering one last big score, complete with the signature betrayals, chase sequence, high-octane gunfights, and a final climactic twist to entice a second season, Bad Influencer doesn’t stray too far from expectations, nor did it ever need to.

Given how blatant and candid the show is in this regard, and how broadly it cuts through its overextended realities to merge them into a rushed but cohesive binge, it’s hard to fault it for not being anything more than it intends to be. Bad Influencer is Breaking Bad if the six slow-burn seasons were squeezed into seven fast-paced episodes; if the meth were replaced with Gucci handbags; and, most importantly, if everyone weren’t so uptight. And if that’s your kind of thing, Bad Influencer might just be a better watch than Breaking Bad.

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