This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/movies by /u/Existing_Switch_4995 on 2025-06-09 02:09:52+00:00.
I hate how Tyler Perry has moved over the years. And I say this not to tear down a Black creative — but to question why someone with so much power, influence, and access consistently chooses to recycle the same painful narrative over and over again, to the point where it feels less like representation… and more like exploitation.
It feels like his movies don’t just touch on trauma — they traumatize Black audiences.
Yes, Black people have endured and survived unimaginable things. Yes, there are deep-rooted issues in our communities that deserve to be spoken about. But there’s a difference between storytelling and trauma-dumping. There’s a line between bringing awareness and dragging your people through hell just because you can.
Take his latest movie as an example — a single Black mother at the center, and every horrible thing imaginable happens to her. Her landlord kicks her out. Her boss fires her. A cop runs her off the road and threatens her. Her child gets taken away. And just when you think maybe she’ll catch a break… her child dies too.
Why? For what?
At what point does this stop being a story and start becoming suffering as spectacle? It’s not just emotionally exhausting — it’s deeply disturbing.
There’s a pattern here. In nearly all of Perry’s films and series, Black women are abused, broken, or abandoned. Black men are either abusers, cheaters, or saviors — never something in between. The characters lack depth. The pain is constant. The message? That suffering is part of being Black. That pain is our destiny. That endurance is our only virtue.
But that’s not true.
We are so much more than our trauma.
We are joy. We are excellence. We are innovators, leaders, healers, artists, and dreamers. We are breaking generational curses. We are loving each other. We are making it. And those stories deserve to be told just as loudly, just as boldly, just as frequently.
What’s most disheartening is that someone like Tyler Perry could tell those stories. He has a studio. He has funding. He has a loyal audience. He has access to some of the best Black talent in the world. But instead of evolving his storytelling, he keeps feeding us the same pain — dressed up as entertainment.
When I look at the landscape of Black film and television, I can name dozens of shows and movies that uplift, that stretch beyond trauma, that imagine something better for us: shows like Queen Sugar, Insecure, Abbott Elementary, Black Panther, The Photograph, The Harder They Fall. These works show that we can tell layered stories — ones that reflect struggle and joy.
But I truly cannot name a single Tyler Perry production that left me feeling uplifted.
At some point, we have to ask: Who is this really for? Who benefits from a never-ending loop of Black pain? And when will it be enough?
Because we deserve more than to see ourselves repeatedly battered by life, by each other, and by scripts that refuse to imagine us as anything but victims.
We deserve healing stories, hopeful stories, and whole stories.
We deserve better from someone who claims to love us.