Jo-Anne Reyneke
Jo-Anne Reyneke and Cindy Mahlangu light up the screen as two women bound by desperation and daring, proving that even in a society obsessed with image, the truest stories still come from the heart. It’s sharp, soulful television that lingers long after you log off.
Themba Khumalo
Bad Influencer is not another glossy takedown of selfie culture, it is a South African series that finds raw emotion where you least expect it. Beneath the neon lights and curated posts lies a world of survival, sacrifice, and uneasy hope.
Jo-Anne Reyneke and Cindy Mahlangu light up the screen as two women bound by desperation and daring, proving that even in a society obsessed with image, the truest stories still come from the heart. It’s sharp, soulful television that lingers long after you log off.
Take a breath. Let the hum of the day fade for a moment. Somewhere on your Netflix feed, a quiet signal glows, not another shiny show about influencers and filters, but something deeper, darker, more human.
You might think you have seen it all when it comes to social media dramas, but Bad Influencer cuts through the static with the precision of truth. It is not satire, not really a comedy either. Yes, some moments make you smile, even laugh, but beneath that lies something far more unsettling — a descent into the murky world of crime and exploitation, peeling back the glossy façade to reveal the brutality of those who call the shots from the shadows.
At the heart of it all are two women, bound by circumstance and defiance. Jo-Anne Reyneke is magnificent as BK — a single mother balancing exhaustion and determination in a city that keeps testing her limits. Life has handed her too many blows, yet she stands — resilient, guarded, quietly fierce.
Reyneke’s performance is nothing short of astonishing. Every glance, every silence carries weight. She gives BK a lived-in authenticity, the kind of performance that seeps under your skin. When she cries, you feel it. When she fights, you root for her. When she laughs, you breathe again.
Opposite her is Cindy Mahlangu as Pinky, the glamorous influencer whose world is built on illusion. On screen, she sparkles: designer heels, perfect selfies, the curated smile that keeps the wolves at bay. But Mahlangu plays her with beautiful restraint, letting the mask slip just enough to show the ache beneath.
Behind all the glitter, Pinky is lonely, yearning for real connection. When the need arises, she is unexpectedly kind, protective even. Mahlangu captures every flicker of that contradiction, the vulnerability under the veneer with the subtlety of a seasoned actor. Her performance is layered, graceful, and deeply affecting.
The chemistry between Reyneke and Mahlangu is A-grade — the kind that cannot be faked. They play off each other like sisters, rivals, and mirrors all at once. When they argue, it feels unscripted, raw, electric. When they laugh, you join them. When one breaks, the other bends. Together, they create a bond so vivid that you almost forget you’re watching fiction.
The plot begins with a reckless act of rebellion: BK, desperate to make ends meet, starts crafting counterfeit handbags. Pinky, hungry for meaning beyond the likes and hashtags, becomes her unlikely partner in crime. For a while, it feels thrilling — two women carving out a slice of control in a world that has denied them power. But soon, the weight of their choices catches up with them. The laughter fades, and the consequences creep in.
Their small hustle soon draws the gaze of Bra Alex — played with chilling brilliance by Vincent Mahlape — a man whose smile hides the machinery of a counterfeiting empire. Before long, the pair finds itself wedged between two relentless forces: the law and the lawless.
What follows is a tense and twisted dance of survival, where wit must outpace danger, and loyalty bends beneath the weight of desperation. Together, they must outsmart both the criminals who made them and the police who hunt them — just to stay free long enough to taste success.
And then in comes Thapelo Mokoena as Themba — a police captain in the Counterfeit and Organised Crime Unit. He enters the story like a still point in the storm: calm, composed, but with eyes that carry entire stories. Mokoena gives the character immense depth — dignity tempered with compassion, authority softened by doubt.
He does not need grand gestures, a single look, a pause, tells you everything. His scenes with BK shimmer with quiet intensity. You sense two souls circling each other, wary but drawn together by something they cannot quite name.
What Bad Influencer does so brilliantly is refuse easy labels. It is not a simple morality tale, nor is it a glamorised crime caper. It is a raw, humane story about survival and consequence — about women navigating a system stacked against them, about the compromises that start as survival and end as betrayal. There are moments of humour, yes, but they are fleeting sparks in a world that is otherwise unflinchingly real.
Visually, it is striking — Johannesburg rendered in shadows and neon, beauty and menace intertwined. The writing hums with honesty. Every scene feels grounded, every emotion earned. It is a story that asks what happens when the performance stops, when the ring lights go dark, and all that’s left is the truth.
So put your phone down. Forget the feed. Find the heart. Because once Bad Influencer starts, you won’t just watch — you will feel it. It will pull you in, make you ache, make you care. And long after the credits roll, it will linger — like the echo of something real.
