Letlhogonolo Masipa Tells Us Why Empathy Matters, Gatekeeping Fails, and Community Wins

I caught Hlogi on a quick voice call during his lunch break on the set of Shaka Ilembe Season 3. I asked if he was the director of photography. He said no, explaining that he had been camera-operating on this season, and that right now he was helping the crew with some stills for marketing.

Over the course of our call, Hlogi spoke generously and openly about the film industry, sharing thoughtful insights into his journey, the challenges of working outside major hubs, how he balances creativity with the realities of the business, and his approach to telling African stories with honesty and care.

By Khaya Mnisi

Image of Hlogi by Don Meyambo. Courtesy of Hlogi Masipa

Khaya: Let’s start at the beginning. For those who may not know you yet — who is Letlhogonolo Masipa?

Hlogi: I’m from Limpopo, born and bred. I spent my primary years between Jozi and Limpopo, but came to live in Johannesburg full-time in 2018. In 2019, I started my first year at City Varsity in Braamfontein and graduated with a BA in Film and Television.

Khaya: Why filmmaking? What is it about film and photography, as opposed to music or other creative mediums, that lets you express things those other forms don’t?

Hlogi: For me, it’s always been about storytelling. I’ve been surrounded by stories my whole life — stories of the people around me, the ones I grew up watching, and the ones I feel the world needs to sit with and really see. I understand storytelling through music, but film and photography allow me to express something deeper and more precise. A look, a pause, the way light falls on someone’s face — those moments say things music sometimes can’t.

Film has the ability to hold emotion, time, and truth all at once. It doesn’t just tell you how to feel; it places you inside someone else’s experience. That’s what draws me to it.

Through moving images, I can communicate nuance, vulnerability, and silence in a way no other medium allows.

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Image by Lephatse Motshana. Courtesy of Hlogi Masipa

Khaya: Was there someone in your family who was in the film industry, or were you the first to take that path?

Hlogi: Not really. My big brother was the one who’s been in the industry the longest. The first time I even got introduced to what a script is, it was through him.

Khaya: Did he give you guidance or support along the way?

Hlogi: Yeah — he bought me my first ever camera. And he gave me one line that I still live by today: “Don’t believe the hype.” I’ve carried that from the very first day I stepped into the industry.

Khaya: That’s a saying I’ve heard before — what does it mean to you personally?

Hlogi: Basically, hype is an illusion. Sometimes people tell you, “You’re the sh*t,” and you start believing it so much that you end up looking down on others. What my brother meant was: yes, you’re going to be dope, but don’t ever look down on anyone — whether they’re just starting out or have been in the industry for years. Open doors for people, show them the way. That’s the heart of “Don’t believe the hype.”

Khaya: So you don’t believe in gatekeeping? I ask because sometimes it seems like it serves a purpose — it can filter out people who aren’t ready or who might not appreciate the opportunities they’re given.

Hlogi: I mean…I believe that when you open the door for other people, more blessings come your way. Some people see gatekeeping as a way to control the industry or stay in power, and that’s their choice. But by keeping doors closed, you’re also closing opportunities for yourself. When you help someone, that same person might open doors for you in the future — you never know.

Khaya: How did growing up in Limpopo shape your creative perspective and work ethic?

Hlogi: Limpopo taught me how to be hungry for something. I didn’t grow up there full- time — I moved through Soweto, Tembisa —and that’s where I started finding my voice, creating reference points for the stories I want to tell. It’s also where I learned empathy and love for people.

Growing up in the hood, you just… you learn to care, because you know what people have gone through. That’s what my work translates.

Khaya: And what challenges did you face coming from outside the major industry hubs?

Hlogi: The first challenge was saying, “I want to be a filmmaker.” That was difficult both internally and externally. Internally, I had to convince myself that this was possible. Externally, parents, peers, and people around me didn’t believe filmmaking was something you could pursue unless you were an actor.

Coming to Johannesburg brought a different set of challenges. The industry moves fast, and there’s a lot of gatekeeping. People didn’t always take me seriously — especially when I hadn’t yet had access to cameras or formal opportunities. When I said I wanted to be a filmmaker, the response was often dismissive, tied to where I came from. Being from Limpopo, from rural spaces, came with assumptions about what I could or couldn’t be. You hear things like, “We’ll call you next time,” and that next time never comes. So I had to push on my own — practice, learn, improve, and slowly prove that I belonged.

Those challenges taught me self-reliance, patience, and the importance of building your own path when the door isn’t opened for you.

Khaya: When you direct a film, how do you personally approach bringing a story to life?

Hlogi: I always start with the story and sit with it for a long time before anything else. I think about who the characters are, what they’re carrying, and what isn’t being said. Writing helps me clarify that, but the real work is understanding the emotional truth of the story.

From there, I look for visual and emotional reference points — sometimes an image, sometimes a feeling or a memory — that help translate what I see in my head into something others can connect to. These references aren’t about copying; they’re about alignment, so everyone involved understands the same emotional language.

When it comes to execution, collaboration matters to me, but I also believe intimacy is powerful. Even if it’s just me and the person in front of the camera, I approach it with care and attention. I create a space where the subject feels seen and safe, because that’s where honesty lives. Whether I’m working with a full crew or alone, my goal is always the same: to serve the story with sensitivity, patience, and intention.

Image by Zibuyile Gumede

Khaya: What kind of stories are you mostly drawn to — the ones you want to tell or the ones you want to be known for?

Hlogi: I’m drawn to drama because it reflects society back to itself. It allows people to see themselves on screen and learn through recognition rather than instruction.

Khaya: Your favourite dramas?

Hlogi: Tsotsi, If Beale Street Could Talk, Queen & Slim.

Khaya: How did you guide the actors toward the heart of the story on Amahle: A Vaal Story, since it was a fashion film? I imagine the process was different from directing a regular feature?

Hlogi: It was really about trust — being honest with the people who are going to be on screen — and then the rest just follows. When trust, honesty, and empathy are all together, performance flows naturally because I’m allowing them to be themselves. In being themselves, it translates onto the camera.

It wasn’t really about heavy performance, or me saying, “Do this inside, or do it this way.”It was about letting the actors show me what they could do, and if what they were doing didn’t match what I was going for, that’s when I guided them.

Khaya: So would you say it was experimental?

Hlogi: People use that word a lot, but what does it mean exactly, because it's like people indirectly implying that as the director you don't actually know what you're doing, but I knew what I was doing. I prefer “improvise.” It’s like how they do things in theatre — when something goes wrong, the actor adapts, but they know what they’re doing.

Khaya: What did working on Amalahle: A Vaal Story allow you to explore creatively that other projects might not have?

Hlogi: That project is really special to me. Mpumi and I had been talking about making a fashion film for years, but it never happened — we had ideas about shooting outside the country, and the budget never allowed it.

When this project finally came through and Mpumi gave me full creative freedom, I was excited. But on the day of the shoot, I quickly realized the location didn’t match my treatment at all. I’d never seen the space before, and my plan just didn’t work there. So I had to rethink everything on the spot. Every frame you see was created in the moment. With only a few hours in the space, I had to walk around, test ideas, and find ways to make it work without showing that it was unplanned. It was a lesson in being flexible and trusting my instincts when things don’t go as expected.

Film grab from Amalahle: A Vaal Story

Khaya: What makes a good director?

Hlogi: Empathy. A good director understands that they’re working with human beings before anything else. Actors bring their real lives, pain, and history into the work. If someone has experienced something deeply personal or traumatic, and you’re asking them to draw from that place, it requires care and empathy. Without empathy, the work can’t come from an honest place. You might get a performance, but it won’t be truthful.

When a director approaches actors from a human space — with patience and understanding — trust is built. And it’s that trust that allows real, vulnerable performances to exist on screen.

Image by Vuyolwethu “Vuyo” Ngcukana. Courtesy of Hlogi Masipa

Khaya: Studio heads… you hear filmmakers complain they care more about money than creativity. How do you see that in South Africa?

Hlogi: It does, but we don’t really have “studios” in the Hollywood sense here. We have production houses and broadcasters like MultiChoice and Canal+. Those are the people with the money, the ones who greenlight projects.

As much as we’re all in the film world, people play different roles. Some of us are purely creative, and others are on the business side. And at the end of the day, this is still a business. If someone is investing hundreds of millions into a film, they are going to expect a return. That’s just how it works.

Of course, every filmmaker would love to make a movie with unlimited money and no financial pressure — and still get paid. But that’s not reality.

If no one makes money, the system collapses.

So when these companies focus on box office, it’s not because they hate creativity — it’s because they need the numbers to make the ecosystem function. Look at what Marty Supreme just did: it became A24’s first film to pass $100 million at the box office. They spent around $60–70 million to make it, got their money back, and now they can reinvest in other projects. That’s the cycle that keeps filmmaking alive.

Khaya: Yes, there has to be a balance between creativity and business. If we only chase money, we end up making safe, boring films.

Hlogi: At the same time, we can’t ignore the reality most creatives are living in. A lot of people don’t have money. Most are just trying to survive — trying to pay rent, keep their apartments, keep their lives together. So when a production house comes and says, “Here’s a script — come direct,” and you’re broke, nine times out of ten you’re going to take it. You don’t really have the luxury to say no.

That’s where the survival mindset kicks in. You start listening to what the studio heads want, even if it means compromising your creative ideas. It’s not always because you agree with them — it’s because you need the job.

Image by Branden

Khaya: Do you think the South African film industry allows enough honest, thoughtful criticism of its films?

Hlogi: I don’t think we do. In many ways, the South African film industry struggles with honesty. You’ll often see projects that clearly aren’t working, yet they’re praised anyway — even though, deep down, many people know they’re not strong. That’s dangerous, because without honest feedback, the industry can’t grow.

If no one points out where something fell short — whether it’s a weak frame, a storytelling choice that didn’t land, or an overall lack of clarity — there’s no real opportunity to improve.

Constructive criticism forces you to reflect, rethink, and do better next time.

But instead, praise is often handed out too easily, with people calling work “fire” when it isn’t.

A big part of this comes from fear and what I see as a survival mentality. People are afraid of being honest because they don’t want to jeopardise future work or relationships. As a result, criticism stays private — whispered behind closed doors — rather than being shared openly and productively.

You rarely see industry professionals publicly engaging on platforms like Letterboxd or Rotten Tomatoes with thoughtful critique. Ironically, it’s often audiences outside the industry who are the most honest. They have nothing to lose, so they’re willing to say plainly when something didn’t work.

Khaya: So how do you deal with criticism?

Hlogi: I deal with criticism differently. Some people do let me know that they dont like my stuff, but some people say they do like my stuff. You know, I think it's also balancing the fact that like art is art, and art cannot be taken the same way. Some people say it's bad, and some people would say it's not.

Also as individuals we don't share the same perspectives. We don't come from the same place, so certain things won't touch us the same, you know, so if someone says something of mine is bad, I am so keen to listen to why they think it's bad and how I can improve and if someone says something of mine is good, I'm keen to hear what is good about it and how I can make it even more better.

Khaya: The Passage deals with heavy themes — patriarchy, gender-based violence, loyalty, survival. How did you approach visually supporting that?

Hlogi: Respect and empathy came first. Before thinking about visuals, I wanted to understand the psychology behind the story and the emotional reality of the spaces the characters move through, and then translate that into visual choices.

In one particular scene, instead of introducing the man with the knife immediately, I chose to introduce the moment through his shadow moving through the passage.

That decision wasn’t about stylizing the film, but about how fear is actually experienced — you often sense a presence before you fully see it. By delaying the reveal, the tension builds naturally and the audience shares the character’s instinctive reaction.

Some imagery was inspired by references, but many decisions were made intuitively on the day. Given how heavy the subject matter is, everything had to be treated with care and restraint. I kept asking myself: if I truly understand someone’s psychology, how do I translate that visually in a way that feels honest and recognizable to people who’ve lived through similar experiences?

When Ntokozo first told me about the film, we did a recce to feel the space — the textures, scale, and energy of the passage. Growing up in Thembisa and Soweto, I understood how intimidating those spaces can be at night. That lived experience informed the choice to introduce the threat through suggestion first, rather than immediately showing the person. It became less about showing the act itself, and more about capturing the emotion, anticipation, and fear that come before it.

Khaya: So where can we watch the film? I’ve been struggling to find South African short films online—there doesn’t seem to be a central platform for them.

Hlogi: Ntokozo has been planning a proper distribution for it, which is probably why the film isn’t online yet. If you’ve been going to festivals, you might have seen it there. But it should be coming out soon—he’s in talks with distributors about how it will be released. There’s also interest from the education sector; people want to use the film as a teaching tool.

Khaya: Do you think YouTube is the best place to watch films?

Hlogi: I don’t think YouTube is the best place to watch films, but it’s becoming one of the most powerful platforms for distribution. It’s growing incredibly fast and is starting to function as a serious alternative to traditional gatekeepers, especially for emerging filmmakers. What’s exciting is the reach.

I know a filmmaker who couldn’t get a project sold through conventional channels, so he released short segments on YouTube instead. Within a few months, those episodes reached around 3.5 million views. That kind of audience is hard to ignore, and it raises important questions about where the industry is heading and who gets access to viewers.

For me, YouTube isn’t about replacing cinemas or festivals, but about expanding the ecosystem. It offers filmmakers a direct relationship with an audience, without having to wait for permission. That’s something I’m seriously considering for my own work — not as a compromise, but as a strategic choice.

Khaya: Can you tell me about Stories Of Hope, how it all started and what inspired you to

create it?

Hlogi: Stories of Hope started as a need more than a plan. It became my creative home — a space where I could tell the stories I genuinely care about without feeling boxed in by expectations of what should or shouldn’t work.

I’m inspired by how companies like A24 operate, not just as production houses but as environments that protect unconventional ideas. A lot of their projects were once considered risky or “unmarketable,” and that resonated with me.

I wanted to create a space with that same spirit — where ideas are allowed to exist before they’re judged.

Right now, Stories of Hope is primarily where I exercise my voice as a director, but the long-term vision is much bigger. I want it to grow into a platform that brings other creatives in, supports them, and gives a home to work that might otherwise be dismissed by the industry. At its core, Stories of Hope is about creative freedom — making space for honesty, risk, and stories that come from a real place.

Khaya: Do you want to focus mainly on African stories?

Hlogi: Right now, yes — my focus is very much on African stories. That’s where my heart is, and that’s where I feel the deepest responsibility as a storyteller. There’s so much richness, complexity, and urgency in African narratives, and I want to contribute to that in a meaningful way, especially at this stage of my growth. That said, I don’t see the focus as limiting. As Stories of Hope grows, I’m very open to engaging with international stories as well — whether that’s me directing them or creating space for other filmmakers to do so through the company. My long-term vision is for Stories of Hope to function as a creative home for multiple voices rooted in African storytelling, but open enough to support voices and stories from anywhere in the world.

Khaya: How do you balance your creative vision with the realities of running a business? I find that many creatives focus only on the dream and don’t always think about the business side that actually makes the dream possible.

Hlogi: It’s definitely a balancing act. I think for a long time, creatives were encouraged to focus only on the dream and ignore the business, which feeds into that idea of the “struggling artist.” I’m actively trying to move away from that mindset.

For me, creativity and business aren’t opposites — the business side is what makes the creative freedom sustainable.

I still allow myself to create from a pure place, but alongside that I’m always asking practical questions: How does this live in the real world? How does it reach people? How does it sustain me and the collaborators involved?

The reality is that making work costs money at every level — from equipment and logistics to something as basic as data and Wi-Fi. So thinking about monetization isn’t selling out; it’s taking your work seriously. The goal is to build a structure where the business supports the vision, rather than limiting it. That’s how I try to protect the dream while making sure it can actually last.

Khaya: I recently spoke with another director who said that many South African films struggle with visibility, longevity, and building a sustained cult audience. In the West, when a film is released, it often develops a lasting following — people talk about it for years. But in South Africa, a film like The Passage might be watched intensely for a year and then fade from conversation, or become hard to access altogether.

Hlogi: What the Western does, and what we are not doing is the fact that they invest in community building and realise the power that it has.

Right now, many South African filmmakers are not prioritising community-building as part of their practice.

There tends to be a focus on individual careers rather than cultivating a collective audience around the work. But sustainable film culture depends on community — on consistently engaging with audiences, inviting them in, and building relationships with them. That community is ultimately the foundation that will watch your films, support your work, and show up for you over time. Like it's nice to be working at a company like bomb, where you see that they have a community, because whatever show comes out from them, whether its Yizo Yizo, whether its IsiBaya, they have a community that will gather to watch that show. But because you're not building on community, and you're just looking at yourself as an individual that can make things happen, because you think you are a celebrity or whatever you will see who will pull up for you on that day(no one). But when you have a community, they will stand for you, they will be the people who buy your tickets and come to your screenings when you drop a film. They will fight for you. They will support you each and every way.

Image by Katlego Makhudu

Khaya: So this is the last one, looking back on your journey so far. What advice do you now realize was misguided and bad, and what advice has genuinely shaped the way you think and work as a film director, you know sometimes you meet someone in life and they just give you the worst advice, for some reason you don't know. So have you ever encountered such an experience, and what was the advice?

Hlogi: One piece of advice I’ve learned to question is being told that I need to focus on only one thing — that I should choose between directing, cinematography, or photography and commit to just that. For a long time, that idea is presented as the “serious” or “professional” path.

But for me, those disciplines are deeply connected.

Cinematography, photography, and directing inform one another — they’re like siblings.

Each one sharpens how I see, how I frame emotion, and how I tell stories. Asking me to separate them would actually limit my voice rather than refine it.

I believe we’re often encouraged to misunderstand the idea of focus. People quote “jack of all trades, master of none,” but they rarely finish the thought. The full idea recognizes that being skilled across disciplines can actually make you stronger, more adaptable, and more intuitive in your work.

The advice that’s genuinely shaped me is learning to trust how I’m wired creatively. Instead of forcing myself into a box, I’ve focused on deepening each skill and letting them support one another. That approach has helped me develop a more holistic way of seeing stories — and that’s ultimately what I bring into my work as a director.