Love and Wine

Vintage Vintages and New Labels

The romantic comedy is a genre often unfairly maligned as a product of assembly lines—a formulaic confection designed for easy consumption rather than critical chewing. Yet, when a director approaches the form with genuine affection for its history and a keen eye for local texture, the result can be deceptively substantial. Amanda Lane’s *Love and Wine* (2025) is one such vintage. Ostensibly a glossy South African remake of the Brazilian hit *Rich in Love*, the film manages to transcend its "adaptation" label. It does so by rooting a universal fable of mistaken identity deep in the soil of the Western Cape, transforming a standard prince-and-pauper narrative into a vibrant exploration of modern South African identity, class anxiety, and the performance of self.

Lane, a director known for her work in more dramatic television landscapes (*Is'thunzi*), brings a surprising visual grandeur to what could have been a flat, direct-to-streaming romp. She rejects the flat, high-key lighting that plagues so many modern digital rom-coms. Instead, she and her cinematographer treat the Cape Winelands not just as a pretty backdrop, but as a character with moods. The vineyards are bathed in a golden, almost syrup-thick light that suggests the intoxication of first love, while the interiors of the Sityebi estate are framed with a symmetry that feels both opulent and oppressive.



This visual richness serves a narrative purpose: it heightens the stakes for Ovee (Ntobeko Sishi), the heir who swaps places with his driver to woo Amahle (Masali Baduza), a pragmatic medical student. The camera loves the contrast between the suffocating perfection of Ovee's world and the chaotic, authentic vibrancy of the life he pretends to lead. Lane often isolates Ovee in wide shots, emphasizing his loneliness amidst luxury, only to crowd the frame during the "poor" sequences, suggesting that a lack of money is compensated by an abundance of community.

The heart of the film, however, lies in its refusal to treat the class swap merely as a source of slapstick. While there are moments of requisite chaos, the script treats Amahle’s struggle—and her disdain for the idle rich—with serious respect. Ntobeko Sishi plays Ovee not as a bored playboy, but as a young man paralyzed by his own inheritance, desperate to be seen as a creator rather than a consumer. But it is Masali Baduza who anchors the film. Her Amahle is sharp, weary of games, and visibly burdened by the real-world stakes of her medical career. Their chemistry works because it is built on a friction that feels specific to a country still navigating vast economic disparities; the "lie" Ovee tells isn't just a plot device, but a manifestation of the guilt inherent in his privilege.



Ultimately, *Love and Wine* succeeds because it understands that the "rom" needs the "com" to survive, but it needs the drama to matter. By the time the inevitable reveal arrives, the betrayal feels earned and the fallout genuine. Lane has crafted a film that, like the wine it fetishizes, offers a familiar initial taste but reveals complex notes of social commentary upon the finish. It is a polished, empathetic piece of cinema that proves the romantic comedy is still a vital vessel for examining how we love, how we lie, and how we might bridge the gaps between us.