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      Colman Domingo’s Crooked Summer

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      Colman Domingo — actor, playwright, dramaturge, producer, professor and the fella who showed up to this year’s Oscars in a hot pink sequined Versace suit — is likely best known for his character of Victor on television’s “Fear the Walking Dead.” He’s also brought a sensitive soulfulness to the array of characters he’s portrayed in some of the past decade’s most prominent Black films: “The Butler,” “Selma,” “42,” “The Birth of a Nation,” “If Beale Street Could Talk” and “Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom.” More

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      in Theater

      After Tragedy, an Indianapolis Theater Stages a Comeback

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      Bryan Fonseca, the founder of a notable company, died of complications from Covid-19. But at the theater named for him, the show goes on.INDIANAPOLIS — On a breezy, 80-degree evening, the sun still in the sky, the actor Chandra Lynch walked to the center of the Fonseca Theater Company’s outdoor stage-in-the-round. At her back was a semicircle of oversized blocks, each with printed words that together formed the sentence “Blackness iz not a monolith.”She turned to face a section of a dozen mostly white audience members, part of the sold-out opening night crowd of 50.“White folks call what I’m about to do ‘exposition,’” she said, her mouth visible through a clear face shield. “But the Black folks in the audience know I’m about to preach.”The Fonseca Theater, located in a working-class neighborhood on the city’s west side whose actors are more than 80 percent people of color, staged its first show on Friday night since its founder, Bryan Fonseca, died from complications from Covid-19 last September.And not just any show — the world premiere of Rachel Lynett’s play “Apologies to Lorraine Hansberry (You Too August Wilson),” a metafictional meditation on Blackness that was recently selected as the winner of the 2021 Yale Drama Series Prize, one of the most prestigious awards for playwrights.Chandra Lynch getting ready backstage for the play.Maddie McGarvey for The New York Times“This play allows us to just be 100 percent, unapologetically Black,” said Latrice Young, who plays Jules, a young queer woman who chafes at the regulations of her all-Black community. “There aren’t a lot of spaces outside the home environment where I can do that.”Friday’s sold-out premiere, held in the theater’s parking lot, was the culmination of a nearly nine-month journey back to the stage after Fonseca’s death — and one of the first shows to be held in Indianapolis since the pandemic closed theaters across the country in March 2020.And it was far from easy. The theater’s 27-year-old producing director, Jordan Flores Schwartz, had to adjust to taking on a top-dog role she hadn’t been expected to assume for years. Then the comeback was pushed back by two weeks after rain delays put the theater behind on set construction — and two of the actors tested positive for the coronavirus four days before opening night.“It’s been a journey,” said Schwartz, who is juggling her new role with coursework for a master’s degree in dramaturgy from Indiana University. “But there was never a question of whether we would continue. We had to.”Theater for the CommunityFonseca had long enjoyed a reputation as one of the most daring producers in the Indianapolis theater scene. He co-founded the Phoenix Theater in 1983, which became a home for productions that might never have found a place on the city’s half-dozen more mainstream stages.Aniqua Chatman, left, and Chinyelu Mwaafrika wait backstage for their cue.Maddie McGarvey for The New York TimesHis shows included Terrence McNally’s exploration of a group of gay men, “Love! Valour! Compassion!” — which attracted picketers — “Human Rites,” by Seth Rozin, which deals with female circumcision, and offbeat musicals like “Urinetown” and “Avenue Q.”“His personal mission was to bring diverse work to Indianapolis, because he firmly believed we deserved that, too,” Schwartz said.She and Fonseca had been a team since 2016, when he hired her at the Phoenix as a summer intern while she was working on her master’s degree in arts administration at the University of Oregon — one of the few paid internships available in the industry, she said.And when he left the Phoenix in 2018 after 35 years following a dispute with the board, she became a collaborator on his next venture: the Fonseca Theater Company, a grass-roots theater in a working-class neighborhood that champions work by writers of color. The theater, which has an annual budget of roughly $180,000, still often plays to majority-white audiences, though Schwartz said the share of people of color who attend is growing.Fonseca envisioned one day creating a community center in the building next door, with a coffee shop, free Wi-Fi, space for classes and gatherings, and laundry and shower facilities open to anyone.“He really wanted to give the neighborhood a seat at the table,” said Schwartz, who said 10 percent of the company’s audience members come from the surrounding Haughville, Hawthorne, Stringtown and WeCare communities.Jordan Flores Schwartz, who had been mentored by Bryan Fonseca, has now taken over as the theater’s producing director.Maddie McGarvey for The New York TimesFonseca became one of the first producers in the city to resume performances during the coronavirus pandemic last July, when he staged a socially distanced production of Idris Goodwin’s “Hype Man: A Break Beat Play,” which centers on the police shooting of an unarmed young Black man, in the theater’s parking lot.“He always believed theater had the power to unite people,” Schwartz told The New York Times last summer. “He wanted to be part of the conversation around the Black Lives Matter protests.”Fonseca took precautions, such as requiring masks and situating actors and audience members six feet apart, but “Hype Man” was forced to close a week early after one of the actors became ill. He was tested for the virus, but the theater declined to divulge the results, citing privacy.Fonseca became sick in August, Schwartz said. He died a little over a month later, a few weeks after the theater wrapped a second production, Tearrance Arvelle Chisholm’s “Hooded, or Being Black for Dummies.” (She said it was unclear how he contracted the virus.)He had already planned for the theater to take a hiatus, a decision that proved prescient when Schwartz, who had just begun her master’s program, took on the role of interim producing director.Josiah McCruiston, whose character often serves as comic relief, onstage in the production.Maddie McGarvey for The New York TimesBut there was never a question as to whether the theater would continue after his death, maintained Schwartz, who is Mexican-American and Jewish and has long worked in community and children’s bilingual theater.She began plotting a four-show outdoor season of ambitious plays by Quiara Alegria Hudes, Fernanda Coppel and Carla Ching, all women of color. One script in particular jumped out at her — Lynett’s “Apologies,” a play she’d first read in March 2020, and which seemed newly relevant in light of the racial justice protests and reckoning in the theater industry.The play is set after a second Civil War, in the fictional world of Bronx Bay, an all-Black state devoted to protecting “Blackness.” Five residents debate what makes someone Black enough to live in their community — conversations that allow Lynett to emphasize that Blackness is not a monolithic experience.But unlike “Fairview” or “Slave Play” — two works Lynett said she admires — hers is not aimed at white viewers. It’s about finding Black joy, she said in a video discussion hosted by the theater.“What does it mean to be a Black woman who’s sexually assaulted onstage every night in front of a mostly white audience?” she added. “I wanted to write a play that really avoided the trauma.”Just Getting StartedIn April, the theater’s board voted to promote Schwartz to full-fledged producing director, Fonseca’s former role. And the company has raised about half of the $500,000 it needs to create the community center, which it hopes to begin construction on by the fall.But the biggest milestone has already been achieved: returning to the stage.The play’s ending, according to the script, is the most important part. It calls for the five actors to each answer the question, as themselves: “What does Blackness mean to you?”On Friday night, Josiah McCruiston, whose character, Izaak, often supplies comic relief, picked up one of the blocks, labeled “Monolith,” and carried it to the center of the stage.Audience members watching the production, which is being staged outdoors.Maddie McGarvey for The New York Times“I feel this play helps me scream at the top of my lungs about who I am,” he said. “That because I’m Black, I have a story, that I am rich, complex and deep. But I still think some white eyes will say I was funny.”Aniqua Chatman, another actor, said, “I can say ‘Blackness is not a monolith,’ but I still feel the white stares looking at me.”Then Chinyelu Mwaafrika said, “White people, raise your hands.” Thirty hands went up.“I say racism, you say sorry,” he said. “Racism.”“Sorry.”“Racism.”“Sorry.”“Racism.”“Sorry.”With that, the play ended, and the chorus was replaced by applause. More

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      in Music

      'Before I Let Go' is a Black Anthem and the Song of Every Summer

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      Listen and follow Still ProcessingApple Podcasts | Spotify | StitcherWhen the three opening notes of the song hit, there’s only one thing to do: Find your people and dance. Today, we’re talking about “Before I Let Go,” by Maze featuring Frankie Beverly, and the song’s unique ability to gather and galvanize. It wasn’t a huge hit when it came out in 1981, but it has become a unifying Black anthem and an unfailing source of joy. We dissect Beyoncé’s cover, and we hear from friends, listeners and the Philadelphia DJ Patty Jackson about their memories of the classic song.Frankie Beverly performs with Maze at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival in 2019.Amy Harris/Invision, via Associated PressOn Today’s Episode‘Before I Let Go’ (1981)“If you are of the African-American persuasion and alive and have movement in your body, you need to be up and dancing,” said Joy, a friend of Still Processing, about what happens whenever she hears “Before I Let Go.”The song has a special place in the Black American psyche.“It’s a great way to find out who’s Black in your town,” Wesley joked. “If you move somewhere new, you just hold up your phone and start playing it — people will just come running.”“We run toward it, literally and psychically, when we hear it,” Jenna added. “The song to me definitely feels like a protective bubble, and it allows for that five minutes to just exist in this space of joy and optimism.”When Jenna and Wesley asked listeners to share their memories of the song, they heard stories of cookouts, weddings, funerals and car rides with the radio on. Uninhibited joy was a unifying thread.“I’m instantly transported to my grandmother’s backyard in the summer,” Lindsay said. “And I’m smelling crabs and beer, and I’m hearing laughter and I’m just seeing jubilation.”Another listener, Davina, said, “It almost just seems like one of those songs that was always playing in the background of my life.”◆ ◆ ◆A Love Letter from BeyoncéBeyoncé covered “Before I Let Go” during her Coachella Festival set in 2018. She was headlining that year, the first Black woman to ever do so.She used the performance, inspired by homecoming at historically Black colleges and universities, to pay homage to more than a century of Black musical traditions — “Before I Let Go” included.“What better way to pay tribute to Black culture than to perform a song that everyone knows and thinks about,” Jenna said. “Like, she knew it was going to be a performance that a lot of us were going to see at home and be playing at barbecues.”One Still Processing listener said Beyoncé’s cover powerfully transports her into a “secret galaxy where it’s just Black girls dancing,” while another said they “only ever want to hear the Frankie Beverly and Maze version” (admitting that might be an “unpopular opinion”).For Jenna and Wesley, Beyoncé’s cover has a special relationship to the original. “One is not meant to replace the other,” Jenna said. “It’s actually meant to be a love letter to the other.”Hosted by: Jenna Wortham and Wesley MorrisProduced by: Elyssa DudleyEdited by: Sara Sarasohn and Sasha WeissEngineered by: Marion LozanoExecutive Producer, Shows: Wendy DorrExecutive Editor, Newsroom Audio: Lisa TobinAssistant Managing Editor: Sam DolnickSpecial thanks: Nora Keller, Julia Simon, Mahima Chablani and Desiree IbekweWesley Morris is a critic at large. He was awarded the 2012 Pulitzer Prize for his criticism while at The Boston Globe. He has also worked at Grantland, The San Francisco Chronicle and The San Francisco Examiner. @wesley_morrisJenna Wortham is a staff writer for The Times Magazine and co-editor of the book “Black Futures” with Kimberly Drew. @jennydeluxe More

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      in Movies

      ‘Two Gods’ Review: Matters of Life and Death

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      Zeshawn Ali’s documentary is a compelling portrait of a Black Muslim man in Newark who builds caskets and mentors two children.With depth of feeling and warm black-and-white photography, Zeshawn Ali’s humble documentary “Two Gods” fully acknowledges how death is a part of life.Ali brings a matter-of-fact compassion to the experiences of three different people: Hanif, a Black Muslim man in Newark, and the two boys he is mentoring, Furquan and Naz.Hanif builds caskets for a Muslim funeral home and joins their washing rituals for the dead. Lanky with a salt-and-pepper grizzle, heavy glasses, and a restless vibe, Hanif seems settled there after some years in the wilderness. He’s a pal to Furquan, a well-grounded 12-year-old, and a booster for Naz, a baby-faced 17-year-old who seems to be sliding into crime. Hanif worries over both — Furquan eventually moves in with relatives in North Carolina when his grandmother falls ill and mother deals with domestic abuse — while forging his own path and reconnecting with a son.Ali nimbly sketches their shifting fortunes and feelings, sensitive to the contours of the Black and Muslim experience, whether showing the importance of community or the precarious sense of not getting second chances. He cuts efficiently without turning anyone into a case study. The most touching moment might be when Hanif goes through a rough patch and gets the space to say that he just doesn’t know how to respond — he’s hurting and figuring it out. Furquan is also portrayed with respect, as he finds new pursuits in wrestling and churchgoing.A birthday cake gets cut at the beginning and ending of the movie. That celebratory image helps situate Hanif, Furquan and Naz’s lives in a hopeful cycle, working on healing, redemption and just plain living.Two GodsNot rated. Running time: 1 hour 22 minutes. Watch through virtual cinemas. More

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      in Television

      The Making of ‘High on the Hog,’ Bringing Black Food History to TV

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      The new Netflix series tapped years of scholarship and the life experience of its creators to chart how African Americans have shaped the country’s cuisine.There is a breathtaking moment near the end of the first episode of “High on the Hog: How African American Cuisine Transformed America,” a new four-part Netflix documentary based on the 2011 book by the scholar Jessica B. Harris. More

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      in Television

      That ‘Ziwe’ Look

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      On her new Showtime series, Ziwe Fumudoh’s feminine-with-a-wink style enables her sharp comedy.In the first episode of her new variety series on Showtime, the comedian Ziwe Fumudoh asks the writer Fran Lebowitz: “What bothers you more: slow walkers or racism?”“This character is hyperbolic,” Ms. Fumudoh said a few days before the premiere of “Ziwe.” “It’s only hyperbole that somebody would ask that question. And you see that reflected in how I dress.”Ms. Fumudoh was explaining how the wardrobe for the series came together: a tornado of pink that has sucked up a few feather boas, a mountain of crystal embellishments and an assortment of fuzzy hats, plastic visors, tiny sunglasses and opera gloves. When the costume designer Pamela Shepard-Hill would add a ring to an outfit, Ms. Fumudoh would ask for six more, “and then let’s do a cuff that’s entirely made of diamonds,” she said.On “Ziwe,” whether during a confrontational interview or parody music video, Ms. Fumudoh plays an audacious, quick-witted consumerist, whose attitude and armor is inspired by an unholy marriage of Dionne from “Clueless” and Paris Hilton in “The Simple Life,” along with a few other ultrafeminine pop culture figures of the 1990s and aughts. (In a sketch about plastic surgery, she wears matching pink sweatpants and a sleeveless crop top, wordlessly making a reference to Amy Poehler’s desperate mom from “Mean Girls.”)As a comedian who became famous for making people uncomfortable with questions about race and class, Ms. Fumudoh, 29, uses fashion like a weapon, creating an air of innocence with her Delia’s catalog looks, then slicing through it with the sharp heel of a Barbie stiletto.She is also an exceptionally physical performer, writhing and jumping through her musical numbers, whether channeling a jazzy “Chicago” siren or a girl-group member, circa 1999. Extensive legs-in-the-air choreography had to be taken into consideration when planning her ensembles, Ms. Shepard-Hill said.Ms. Fumudoh, in a LaQuan Smith catsuit, rose to prominence on Instagram Live, wearing equally bold outfits and makeup.Greg Endries/Showtime“We would have fittings, and I would be like, ‘OK, do your choreography,’” she said. “Then instantly: ‘That’s inappropriate. Take that off. That’s actually not OK for Showtime.”For the music videos in particular, hyperbolic Ziwe borrows from the real Ziwe’s closet. In a song called “Stop Being Poor” (a joke, in Episode 3, about people who believe being poor is a choice), Ms. Fumudoh wears a skintight all-crystal minidress by Aidan Euan of Akna.“How absurd is it to have a dress that luxurious in a time like this?” she said. “It so encapsulates the idea of ‘Stop Being Poor’ that I got it for ‘Stop Being Poor’ before we even wrote the song ‘Stop Being Poor,’ when I just knew that it was something I wanted to do.”In the 1920s-inspired number “Lisa Called the Cops on Black People,” she wears her own off-the-shoulder black velvet-and-mesh catsuit by LaQuan Smith.When putting together a mood board for the show, Ms. Shepard-Hill included iconic — a favorite “Ziwe” adjective — models like Donyale Luna and Naomi Campbell, as well as rappers like Rico Nasty and Saweetie. She included Josephine Baker, the music-hall star and World War II spy, too.“It was a real range of women that span time but are all iconic in their visuals, iconic in their style and sensibility,” said Ms. Shepard Hill, 37, who is also a stylist and instructor at Parsons School of Design.But in creating her wardrobe, Ms. Fumudoh was also thinking about the white comedians who dominate late-night TV and how to portray herself as the opposite of the suit-wearing men she calls “Jimmy, Jimmy, John, John,” whose wood-heavy sets are “really, really masculine — all blues and blacks and sharp images.”Ms. Fumudoh credits “Legally Blonde,” Rihanna and Lindsay Lohan (among others) as influences on her character’s style.Greg Endries/Showtime“If all of late night is painted with masculinity, my show is hyper-feminine,” she said. “I wear a lot of sparkles. You would never have seen John Oliver in a choker.“When I was growing up, and especially when I first started in media, the idea was to downplay your femininity. If a woman wants to be taken seriously, she wears glasses and pants and she talks with a lower voice like she works for Theranos.”On the wall of the set where Ms. Fumudoh conducts her interviews, there’s a large photo of a young Oprah Winfrey, who deeply influenced “Ziwe,” Ms. Fumudoh said. The Meghan Markle and Prince Harry interview was broadcast the night before the team began cutting the show, and the drama of it “really shaped the way we framed every episode.” It’s not a stretch to imagine Ziwe delivering the same scene-stealing “silent or silenced” line.There’s something else about the plastered photo of Ms. Winfrey that feels tied to “Ziwe”: In it, she’s wearing pink and pearls. Early in her career, Ms. Winfrey found a way to ask tough questions while communicating her femininity.In the first episode of “Ziwe,” when Ms. Fumudoh sits across from Ms. Lebowitz, Ms. Fumudoh wears a short black blazer dress with electric pink lapels, and her own thigh-high chunky-heel leather boots. It’s not a designer piece; it’s available at AD Los Angeles for $149.Despite the opulent aesthetic of “Ziwe,” the costume budget was somewhat limited, in part because it’s a new show, Ms. Shepard-Hill said. The dream, if there’s a second season? “A whole in-house team, where everything could be custom-built from head to toe,” she said.The blazer dress outfit was originally intended for a sketch in which Ziwe, channeling a billionaire Marilyn Monroe acolyte, announces her candidacy for New York City mayor. (“Gone are the days of old white men abusing the office of the mayor to do crooked favors for their ugly friends. Because I don’t have any friends, and I only do favors for myself.”)But Ms. Fumudoh felt strongly about wearing it for the first episode instead, using it to set that subversive anti-late-night host tone for the series.“That pink lapel is such a splash accent that it really captures what the show is,” she said. “All the outfits are telling a story in, like, 19 different ways, beyond the actual text that we write and say.” More

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      in Television

      Bill McCreary Dies at 87; Blazed Trail for Black Journalists on TV

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      He was hired at what became the Fox flagship station in New York in 1967, when there were few Black faces on the air, and became an Emmy-winning anchor.Bill McCreary, an Emmy Award-winning reporter who was one of the first Black television journalists in New York, and whose perspective helped fill a noticeable gap in local public affairs reporting, died on April 4 in Brooklyn. He was 87.The cause was a neurological disease he had for many years, said O’Kellon McCreary, his wife of 62 years and only immediate survivor.His death, which had not been made public earlier by his family, was announced this week by WNYW, the flagship station of the Fox television network. He was hired in 1967 when the station, Channel 5, was owned by Metromedia and known as WNEW, and he remained a familiar on-air presence until he retired in 2000.As a co-anchor, Mr. McCreary helped build the station’s 10 O’Clock News into a ratings powerhouse. He became the managing editor and anchor of the weekly program “Black News” in 1970 and of “The McCreary Report” in 1978, when he was also named a vice president of Fox 5 News.As the civil rights movement exploded on television screens, a demand also grew for Black journalists to be seen and heard. Mr. McCreary, Bob Teague on WNBC, and Gil Noble and Melba Tolliver of WABC were among the few seen on local newscasts in New York at the time.“There was no such thing as ethnic television, because none of us were on TV,” Mr. McCreary told The Daily News of New York in 1997. “So it happens that along came the inner-city thing, places like Bed-Stuy and Harlem, and the news directors suddenly realized, ‘Hey, we don’t have any connections in these Black communities.’ There were less than a handful of us on television back then.”William McKinley McCreary was born on Aug. 8, 1933, in Blackville, S.C., to Simon and Ollie McCreary. He moved to the Lower East Side of Manhattan as an infant with his mother, who became a teacher’s assistant.A graduate of Seward Park High School and Baruch College in Manhattan, he served in the Army from 1953 to 1955. His first broadcasting jobs were in radio, as an announcer at WWRL in Queens and a general-assignment reporter and news director at WLIB in Manhattan.He began reporting for WNEW on March 13, 1967, the first day of the station’s nightly newscast.He won a local Emmy for “Black News” and shared an Emmy for anchoring with John Roland on the 10 O’Clock News — a program preceded every night (as it still is) by the somber signature intonation “It’s 10 p.m. Do you know where your children are?”Mr. McCreary and Dr. Gerald Deas of Kings County Hospital and SUNY Downstate Medical Center shared a commendation from the Food and Drug Administration for alerting the public, on “The McCreary Report” in the 1970s, to the dangers of consuming Argo brand starch. In 1987, Mr. McCreary was given the N.A.A.C.P.’s Black Heritage Award.Among the figures he interviewed over the course of his career were Rosa Parks, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X and Nelson Mandela.“Unlike a lot of TV journalists today, Bill gave you the news, not his opinions,” his former colleague Judy Licht said by email. “Straight and to the point, you never knew where he stood on any issue.”He was also a mentor to a generation of Black journalists. Cheryl Wills, an award-winning reporter for the news channel NY1 who met Mr. McCreary when she was a production assistant at Fox 5, said: “Black newscasters were frowned upon for telling the truth about discrimination and other societal ills in urban America. Bill McCreary told the unvarnished truth, and that’s what set him apart. He told it with tremendous dignity and integrity.” More

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      in Television

      South African Filmmakers Move Beyond Apartheid Stories

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      Films about South Africa once focused on apartheid, but a new generation of directors and producers is making hits about modern life and love for global audiences.JOHANNESBURG — One of South Africa’s top film producers squinted at a monitor as a hush settled over the crew. Cameras zoomed in on an actress playing a dealer of fine art — chicly dressed in a pencil skirt made from bold African textiles — who offered a coy smile as an old flame stepped into her gallery.It’s the opening scene of a new Netflix movie about high-powered Black women, wealth and modern city life in Johannesburg — one in a flood of productions from a new generation of South African filmmakers. They are bent on telling their own stories on their own terms, eager to widen the aperture on a country after a generation of films defined by apartheid, poverty and struggle.“We call it the legacy exhaustion, the apartheid cinema, people are exhausted with it,” Bongiwe Selane, the producer, said a few days later in the editing studio. “The generation now didn’t live it, they don’t really relate to it. They want to see stories about their experiences now.”Those stories have been buoyed by recent investment from streaming services like Netflix and its South Africa-based rival, Showmax, which are racing to attract audiences across the African continent and beyond, and pouring millions into productions by African filmmakers.Bongiwe Selane, at the Usual Suspects Studios in Johannesburg. She said people want to see stories about their current experiences, not just from the apartheid era. Joao Silva/The New York TimesIn South Africa, where for decades the local film industry has been financed by and catered to the country’s white minority, the new funding has boosted Black filmmakers — a cultural moment that parallels the one playing out in Hollywood.Netflix’s first script-to-screen South African productions — the spy thriller “Queen Sono” and “Blood and Water,” a teen drama about an elite private high school — have won fans locally and topped the streaming giant’s international charts.“I know especially in the States, a lot of people were excited to see a Black, dark-skinned girl play a lead character in Netflix,” Ama Qamata, 22, a star of “Blood and Water,” said one recent afternoon in Johannesburg on set for a local soap opera.As a makeup artist touched up her merlot-red lipstick, showrunners shouted into walkie-talkies to set up the day’s scene: A woman at a funeral accidentally falls into the grave of the man she is accused of killing. “Over the top, but the audience loves it,” one line producer, Janine Wessels, quipped.Soap operas like this have been a favorite on local television for years, but many were imported from the United States. “Blood and Water” takes another familiar American genre — the teen drama — and turns the tables: It’s a story set in Cape Town, featuring mansion parties with bouncers, bartenders and infinity pools soaked in neon lights — and has been eaten up by American audiences.Often likened to “Gossip Girl,” the show was the first original African series to be ranked in Netflix’s Top Ten chart in several countries, including the United States, the United Kingdom, France and South Africa.“One of my proudest moments was people from the continent just saying ‘Wow, you really represented us in good light, you really showed the world the filmmaking we’re capable of,’” Ms. Qamata said.Ama Qamata on set of the series “Gomora” in April.Joao Silva/The New York TimesIn the three decades since apartheid, much of South African cinema has been shaped by its legacy.Hollywood studios have flocked to the country to film blockbusters about Nelson Mandela and the struggle’s other heroes. The South African government has promoted apartheid-focused entertainment on local television as part of the country’s own efforts to reckon with its history.Other local fare catered largely to the country’s white Afrikaans minority, who could afford cable and outings to movie theaters mostly in malls and wealthy suburbs — a long, expensive trek for many Black South Africans living in the country’s old townships.“We’ve always had the local industry and funders sort of dictating how our stories should be told,” Ms. Selane, the producer, said. “Our financiers say, you can’t say that or if you say it that way you will offend our white subscribers.”Productions about apartheid were important in documenting the country’s history and exposing the roots of an economy that remains one of the most unequal in the world, where wealth is still concentrated mostly in the hands of whites and a small Black elite.But in recent years, the country has also undergone major demographic and economic shifts. The first South Africans who grew up after apartheid are now adults, asserting their voices on social media and in professional workplaces. And a growing Black middle class has been eager to see itself reflected onscreen — and showing it with their wallets.Actors Ntobeko Sishi, Thembi Seete and Zoliza Xavula during filming of the soap opera “Gomora” in Johannesburg in April.Joao Silva/The New York TimesIn 2015, the film “Tell Me Sweet Something,” about an aspiring young writer who finds unlikely love in Johannesburg’s hipster hangout Maboeng, hit number five in South Africa, blowing the lid off box office expectations for locally made romantic comedies.A year later, “Happiness is a Four Letter Word” — the prequel to Ms. Selane’s latest film that opens with the art gallery scene — outperformed several Hollywood releases in South African movie theaters on its opening weekend.The movie revolves around three bold women navigating a new South Africa. There is Princess, a serial dater and owner of a trendy art gallery; Zaza, a glamorous housewife having an illicit love affair; and Nandi, a high-powered lawyer who gets cold feet on the cusp of her wedding.“Audiences would come up to me to tell me how they also had a guy who broke their heart and they want to see that, to watch something where apartheid is not in the foreground,” said Renate Stuurman, who plays Princess. “It can be in the background, surely, it’s what brought us here, but people were happy to be distracted.”Netflix and Showmax pounced on such stories to capture audiences in Africa, where streaming is projected to reach nearly 13 million subscriptions by 2025 — up fivefold from the end of 2019, according to Digital TV Research, an industry forecaster. For Netflix, the investment is part of a larger push to acquire a generation of Black content.Musicians rehearsing on the set of “Gomora” in Johannesburg in April. The changing demographics of South Africa have led to a shift in the cinematic offerings.Joao Silva/The New York Times“We’re aiming to become a strong part of the local ecosystem in terms of growing the capacity and talent in the market,” said Ben Amadasun, director of Africa Originals and Acquisitions at Netflix. “The basis is that we believe that stories can come from anywhere and travel everywhere.”Since 2016, the company has snapped up content from filmmakers in South Africa and Nigeria, home to the industry popularly known as Nollywood. Nigerian filmmakers have churned out thousands of movies — many produced with just a few thousand dollars and one digital camera — since the late 1990s.Nollywood films won fans across English-speaking Africa, but South Africa is chipping away at its dominance, industry leaders say.For the past two decades, South Africa has hosted major Hollywood studios drawn to its highly skilled workers and government-issued rebate on all production costs spent in the country.Cape Town’s streets were transformed into Islamabad for the fourth season of Homeland; studios constructed models of Robben Island for “Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom;” and crews flew helicopters, crashed cars and set off massive explosions in downtown Johannesburg for “Avengers: Age of Ultron.” Of the roughly 400 films made in South Africa between 2008 and 2014, nearly 40 percent were foreign productions, according to the National Film and Video Foundation, a government agency.For filmmakers here, the shoots were often a source of frustration. The studios brought in their own directors and leading actors — who sometimes played South African characters — while sidelining South Africans to jobs as assistants and line producers.The productions “weren’t looking for our intellect or perspectives, they were looking for Sherpas,” said Jahmil X.T. Qubeka, a filmmaker.Jahmil X.T. Qubeka at The Bioscope cinema in Johannesburg.Joao Silva/The New York TimesBut increased investment in South Africa’s already thriving film industry means that local creatives like Mr. Qubeka have come closer to realizing their ambitions. His new production, “Blood Psalms,” a series for Showmax, employs massive sets reminiscent of “Game of Thrones,” green screens to concoct magical powers, and elaborate costumes of armor and golden crowns.Inside an editing suite in Johannesburg one recent morning, Mr. Qubeka chatted with an editor slicing together shots for the show, about a queen battling a world-ending prophecy — a plot drawn from African mythology.“The true revolution,” Mr. Qubeka said, “is that we as South Africans are being sought out for our perspective and our ideas.” More