Film-maker Kumaran Naidoo died on Saturday at the age of 52.
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As Kumaran Naidu's family prepare for his funeral on Wednesday, Fakir Hassen, a film critic and journalist, who followed the filmmaker's career from the start, pays tribute to the 52 year old who died on Saturday following a long illness.
With the passing of Kumaran Naidu, we have lost more than just a film-maker; we have lost a pioneer who understood the pulse of a community and gave it a mirror to laugh into. I have known Kumaran since the very beginning – back when he first started carving out a niche for local South African Indian cinema.
In those early days, the idea of producing a full-length feature film in Durban, on a shoestring budget and with local talent, seemed like a pipe dream. But Kumaran was never a man to be deterred by the lack of a Hollywood budget, even when his early attempts because of this were slammed by critics, including myself.
I recall him telling me how he appreciated my honest comments. As we continued our relationship over the ensuing decades, he even entrusted me with early production ideas and clips to get my opinion. It was a privilege to see him implementing some of them as the quality of his productions increased exponentially when backers found faith in his capabilities.
Kumaran once even offered me the role of a newspaper editor in one of his movies. I respectfully declined as I reminded him that my own acting aspirations had flown out of the window when I was told decades ago by the team doing the auditions for SABC 2 that they were impressed with my voice, but TV was a visual medium as well. Kumaran laughed at this and asked whether he could incorporate the lines into his script.
He had a rare talent for an unerring sense of timing, and a deep, intrinsic love for his own community’s quirks. Kumaran brought the camera into the lounges of Chatsworth and Phoenix, into the bustling aisles of the Victoria Street Market, and into the complex, often hilarious dynamics of the extended Indian family. His breakthrough work, notably the Broken Promises franchise, became a cultural phenomenon. It wasn’t just about the slapstick comedy – though he was a master of the "laugh-out-loud" moment – it was about the recognition.
Kumaran Naidu, left, on the film set.
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When audiences saw the overbearing mother-in-law, the wayward son, or the neighbourhood gossip on screen, they weren't just watching characters; they were watching their aunts, their neighbours and themselves. Kumaran had the gift of taking our domestic struggles and turning them into communal celebrations.
As a journalist who tracked his career for decades, I saw firsthand how he grew from a determined young director into a seasoned storyteller. What stayed constant was his accessibility. Kumaran didn't hide behind the producer or director chair. He was in the trenches, mentoring young actors who had never been in front of a lens, teaching them the craft, and giving them a platform they would never have found elsewhere.
Many local stars today owe their first break to a Kumaran Naidu production. Despite the criticism, Kumaran knew his audience better than any critic ever could. He understood that in a post-apartheid South Africa, the Indian community was hungry to see its own identity validated through humour. He gave us permission to laugh at our own eccentricities, and in doing so, he helped preserve the unique dialect and slang, unique to the Durban Indian community, even if some decried him for perpetuating this.
Beyond the comedies, his later work showed a man who was willing to experiment with thrillers and dramas, proving that his creative well ran deep. Yet, it is his comedies that will remain his enduring legacy. In a world that can often feel heavy and divided, Kumaran provided a much-needed escape. He sold out cinemas across the country not with marketing gimmicks, but through word-of-mouth from people who simply wanted to identify with the themes he reflected.
To lose him now feels premature. There were still so many stories left in his camera, so many punchlines yet to be delivered. But as we reflect on his journey – from those first tentative local productions to becoming a household name – we see a life well-lived in the service of art and community.
Kumaran didn’t just make movies; he made memories. He proved that our stories were worth telling, and our laughter was worth sharing. As he transitions to the great editing suite in the sky, he leaves behind a body of work that will continue to entertain and inspire for generations.
Rest in peace, my friend. Thank you for the "Broken Promises" that you kept –– promises to keep us entertained, to keep us proud, and above all, to keep us laughing.
Naidu is survived by his wife Fiona, sons Sudarshan and Maheshan, and his three dogs Arri, Alexa and Kia.
* The funeral will take place on Wednesday at the Siva Gnana Sabay Sivan Koil Hindu Temple in Lenasia from 10.30am; and will proceed to the Lenasia Hindu Crematorium at 1pm.