“Roj (Swarm): A Disturbing and Cynical Miniseries Examining Race and Extreme Fandom”

The series Roj (Swarm) will not keep you waiting long for a shock. In the very first scene, you are introduced to the main character, Dre, who is walking through the apartment while her roommate Marissa has sex with her boyfriend. He winks at Dre through the ajar door during sex. The mundane (albeit explicit) processed in this way, which then goes into very disturbing positions, is an apt way to tune the viewer to the tone of the entire miniseries.

In it, Dre gradually descends into darker and darker realms after the death of a loved one redirects her from a relatively stable state to the path of a serial killer. Her murders are then underlined by a bizarre undertone: Dre is a fanatical fan of the fictional singer Ni’Jah (very loosely inspired by Beyoncé), and most of her murders are triggered by her victim’s lack of respect for this particular “idolized” musician. The already skewed world of extreme fandom – for which the term “stan culture” has become established in the past decades, according to Eminem’s song – takes Roj to logical extremes.

Some of the murders are relatively impulsive, while others are elaborately planned by Dre. The creators don’t let you see too much into her head, and you learn about her motivations only gradually, thanks to other characters and rather in hints. One of the few exceptions is the surreal and cleverly minimalist device the show’s creators use to tell you that Dre is seizing an impulse to kill: at those moments, the hum of the titular swarm begins, implying a kind of temporary blackout of the senses.

The main creators of the series are Janine Nabers and Donald Glover. This is not the first time they have worked together – they already met during the production of Glover’s Atlanta, which was not one of the most watched American series in recent years, but definitely one of the most creative. Their cynical, surreal signature of Atlanta, unbound by the audience’s expectations, can be clearly felt in Roja as well. You can easily take the miniseries as a kind of small postscript to the older series, which ended last year – a bit like the Dirt of Baltimore and last year’s series The City Belongs to Us, only in a significantly weirder and more disturbing version.

One topic that both Glover and Nabers like to return to is race relations in the US. And it’s the same with Roja. It wouldn’t be their series if there wasn’t at least one white character who tries to show those around him that he’s definitely not a racist. He usually helps himself by accusing someone else of racism. And it soon becomes clear that deep down he himself is far more hateful than many open racists.

Neither the theme of parasocial relationships between fans and stars nor the cynically comedic racial symphonies of awkwardness are Swarm’s strongest points. It is rather in a good sense the expressionless performance of Dominique Fishback in the main role. It pairs well with the aforementioned tendency of Glover and Nabers to contrast extreme, violent scenes with scenes of gradually distorted everyday life.

A good example is when Dre works as a stripper in a backwoods strip club in Tennessee. Here, Dre cuts an equal parts awkward and boldly honest dance to her favorite singer’s song, and ends it by simply eating a bill handed to her by a strip club patron. Her colleague then has to explain to her that the purpose of her work is for the guests to leave with an erection, not depression.

In terms of screenwriting, a name that may be a bit surprising for some was involved in the series: Malia Obama, the daughter of former US President Barack Obama. Both main creators of the series praised her contribution. “Her writing style is great,” Glover let himself be heard. “Some of her ideas were wild as hell and also good and funny,” Nabers praised her. In addition to Malia, another well-known face from other spheres flashes in the series: the fourth part of Swarm is driven forward by the acting performance of the musician Billie Eilish, who shines here in the role of the head of a strange cult of wealthy white women in Tennessee.

Glover and Nabers are not showrunners who are concerned with breaking viewership records. And compared to the previous Atlanta, it is clear that the Swarm has the potential to become a minority “cult” rather than a hit that you cannot avoid – if only because of the coldly and cynically depicted violence. But you can expect from the series the same thing that Glover and his co-creators have steadily delivered over the past decade not only in television work, but also in music: disturbing work that will force you to review your views on, for example, the question of race in American society, and which is “bejeweled” with funny scenes that you haven’t seen anywhere else and which will probably become Internet memes.