The political drama is a biographical film about an 18th-century prime minister in the Old Oyo Empire.
At its most potent, House of Ga’a, the new Netflix original film directed by Bolanle Austen-Peters, is abundantly colourful.
An opening scene battle transforms into a field of blood in seconds and moves to scenes of celebrations that represent the stunning vibrance of pre-colonial Yoruba fashion and culture in its naked glory. Warriors are fitted in fancy gear, and civilians are decked in elegant outfits. It’s a Nollywood rarity how visually arresting these opening scenes are.
But what hides beneath the surface of all this, when the dust settles on the opening act’s charm offensive, is a story screaming for narrative depth.
‘House of Ga’a’ bathes in colour and is pretty to look at, sometimes [Netflix]
The political drama is mirrored after the life of Bashorun Ga’a, an 18th-century prime minister who made kings and slayed them for sport in the Old Oyo Empire.
For the latest cinematic window into his life, following Adebayo Faleti‘s Bashorun Ga’a in 2004, Femi Branch is the tyrannical titular character who hogs all the attention here. He’s angry and loud and powerful but not much is known about how he becomes this way. That’s the gaping hole that sits at the heart of the film.
House of Ga’a is a straightforward cautionary tale about the corruption of power, and the film doesn’t do too much to impede the flow of that story. That its source material is historical feels limiting, but so much of what’s lacking about the epic is self-inflicted.
The writing leaves room for very little probing for the black, white and grey of the characters, to the detriment of the story. Characters, including Ga’a, shine as cardboard representations simply ticking narrative boxes that leave little room for their development as fully formed entities. Tyrant. Jealous housewives. Defiant slave. Impotent chiefs. Kings that fall fast, mostly, and hard.
‘House of Ga’a’ fails to properly milk dramatic tension from the film’s central conflicts [Netflix]
Most crucially, what House of Ga’a lacks is a formidable foe to psychologically push its antihero — if the meaning of the word is stretched here — in any way that serves a useful dramatic purpose.
Ga’a blows through his competition at a blistering pace, dramatised via a montage of rushed conflicts aided by coarse voice-over narration by his son, Oyemekun (Mike Afolarin). Soon as he’s appointed bashorun, he gets rid of the Alaafin of Oyo based on an agelong vengeful grudge that feels justified, but he keeps chopping and changing occupiers of the stool with unclear motivations and scant internal struggle to help the audience understand why he’s who he is.
That he’s power drunk is a convenient clapback. But why does he really need a king to prostrate before him, why does he need to steal women from his own sons, and why’s he so damn upset someone outdressed the king? The film runs largely on the implication that the audience is already familiar with the story of the man who inspired it and forsakes its responsibility to build a self-contained story fortified with character work that enhances dramatic tension.
House of Ga’a is begging for a more thought-provoking exploration of its central theme, but mostly lands on an abundance of visual extravagance and struggles to stick the landing in a flat final act that heralds Ga’a’s downfall.
Ga’a’s story is a cautionary tale [Netflix]
Branch gets many opportunities to shine here and delivers a commanding performance that will undoubtedly get notable shouts come award season. He’s aided by other veterans including Funke Akindele, Ibrahim Chatta, Bimbo Manuel, Dele Odule, and Toyin Abraham, who put in spirited shifts to spark some life into the story. To its credit, the film also lands some sick brutal shots in the battle scenes that are set up to be its crowning moments.
But House of Ga’a is lacking in the heart and spirit to elevate it from a lame-duck biopic of a man from a foregone era into a political action drama that’s defining for a new era. It’s pretty to look at, sometimes, but it’s not deep enough. In the famous words of Aretha Franklin, “Great gowns, beautiful gowns.”
