Tell It to the Judge

The Architecture of Sabotage

In the modern romantic comedy, the greatest antagonist is rarely a rival suitor or a disapproving parent; it is the protagonist’s own internal machinery of doubt. We have moved past the era where external forces kept lovers apart, arriving instead at a cinema of self-sabotage. *How to Ruin Love: The Proposal* (2024), the latest offering from the South African creative team at Burnt Onion Productions, operates squarely within this neurotic space. As a spin-off of the beloved *How to Ruin Christmas* franchise, this series carries the burden of expectation—a familiar weight for its lead character, Zoleka, whose desperate need for control ironically sends her life spiraling into chaos.



The series, created by Rethabile Ramaphakela, trades the festive hysteria of its predecessor for the sharper, more cynical anxieties of Valentine’s Day. Visually, the production maintains the glossy, high-saturation aesthetic that has become the signature of South African rom-coms on Netflix. The camera loves the vibrancy of Johannesburg, treating the city not just as a setting but as a participant in the drama. However, the visual language here often juxtaposes the polished, Instagram-ready surfaces of Zoleka’s life with the messy, unedited reality of her insecurity. We see her world through a lens of curated perfection—high fashion, sleek interiors—which only highlights the jagged cracks forming in her relationship.

At the narrative's center is Zoleka (Sivenathi Mabuya), a character who challenges the audience’s empathy. She is not the quirky, clumsy heroine of early 2000s American cinema; she is suspicious, abrasive, and deeply wounded. Her journey begins with a catastrophic misreading of her boyfriend Kagiso’s (Bohang Moeko) behavior. Suspecting infidelity, she launches a surveillance operation that culminates in the destruction of her own surprise marriage proposal. It is a scene of excruciating second-hand embarrassment, yet it serves a vital function: it strips the romance genre of its "meet-cute" innocence and replaces it with a "break-ugly" reality.



What follows is an exploration of repentance. The series excels when it zooms out from the couple to the chaotic ecosystem of their families. The ensemble cast, including veterans like Tina Jaxa, provides a Greek chorus of judgment and unsolicited advice, grounding the high-concept premise in the specific textures of Black South African family dynamics. The humor here is specific—rooted in the tension between traditional expectations and modern independence—yet the emotional stakes are universal. The "conversation" the series engages in is one of trust: can a relationship survive when one partner’s trauma dictates the terms of engagement?



Ultimately, *How to Ruin Love* is less about the mechanics of getting a man back and more about the rigorous work of self-acceptance. While the script occasionally leans too heavily on convenient misunderstandings to drive the plot, the emotional resolution feels earned. It suggests that love is not a prize to be won through grand gestures, but a collaborative project that requires the silencing of one's own inner critic. In a landscape often crowded with disposable romances, this series offers a refreshing reminder: we are often the architects of our own loneliness, but we also hold the blueprints for our repair.