Beauty in Black shows not all representation is good representation - INTO
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Beauty in Black shows not all representation is good representation

Tyler Perry’s newest hit series, Beauty in Black, is an unsettling, poorly-executed show disguised as humorous entertainment for Black women and Black queer people. The show centers on a Black woman named Kimmie, played by Taylor Polidore, who is forced into sex work alongside her best friend, Rain (Amber Reign Smith). The two spend their time tirelessly working in a strip club to pay a debt back to their Pimp, Jules (Charles Malik Whitfield).

Jules works for a powerful family called the Bellaries, who own the strip club that’s secretly a human trafficking operation. As insane as it sounds, that’s not the worst of what’s to come in the series. The show generously presents a multitude of plotlines that eventually sync up, but it doesn’t make it easy to watch any of them.

Spoilers Below!

TW: Sexual assault, Homophobia, Trafficking

Kimmie is a survivor of sexual assault commited by her stepfather, a man who doesn’t hesitate to commit the same crime against her younger sister. Kimmie’s story could be powerful in the right hands. Here, it’s broken, traumatic, and unrewarding because the show often treats her pain as mere shock value. Later on in the season, Kimmie goes on an illogical murder spree against all her abusers while side characters repeatedly say, “When Kimmie gets mad, she gets MAD!” As much as you want to cheer for her, it’s not easy when the trauma is free-flowing to the point of disbelief, especially after the reveal that her sister was sex trafficked by her abusers.

Charles Bellarie is the youngest son of the Bellarie family, and he’s gay. He’s charismatic, stubborn, and arrogant. However, despite how funny he can be, his storyline doesn’t show his character in the best light. His father and uncle hate that he’s gay and don’t hold their tongues when spewing hateful homophobic rhetoric. Charles spends the series hooking up with a new guy every night, senselessly drinking and smoking while actively disrespecting the one man who loves him. And as the cherry on top, we learn his father hates him because of his own closeted gay identity, the oldest cliche in the book at this opint.

Over the years, the Black community has criticized Perry’s harsh, sometimes hard-to-watch portrayals of Black lives and families. Donald Glover created a special episode on his show Atlanta that offered social commentary about Perry’s unorthodox work conditions and mismanagement of the stars in his movies and shows. The Boondocks also has an episode about Tyler’s awkward nature with gay men and excessive use of stereotypes. 

Tyler Perry finally spoke out about the collective criticism on a recent episode of Keke Palmer’s podcast, Baby, This is Keke Palmer, stating that he doesn’t feel like people should police how he tells stories.

However, it’s not the stories themselves we find issue with—it’s the constant use of unnecessary traumatic plotlines that place Black women and Black queer men in harm’s way. Perry’s stories usually center on pain, continuously rubbing salt in the wound, and don’t have room to recognize that we have more to offer than sex, drugs, and abuse.

Tyler Perry has so much support from these marginalized communities, which is great because he’s always carving out spaces to represent them. But at what cost?

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