Welcome to “What’s Good,” a column where we break down what’s soothing, distracting, or just plain good in the streaming world with a “rooting for everybody Black” energy.

What’s Good? Sex Education Season 3 on Netflix. In three seasons, Sex Education has taught a masterclass in truly representative teen television. And, unlike many of its peers, the show has done right by its queer and dark-skinned Black  characters. The bar is on the floor, but Sex Education has set a new standard. 

Who It’s Good For: If you are, like me, obsessed with shows about people way younger than you, and still get wrapped up in teen dramas at your big age, Sex Education is going to be extremely your shit. The UK series is set in the fictional town of Moordale and revolves around a teen named Otis (Asa Butterfield) who starts a makeshift sex therapy practice, taking after his mum Jean (Gillian Anderson), a real sex therapist. Those two characters are the show’s backbone and hold up its premise, but it’s the cast around them that have turned Sex Education from an intriguing idea into one of the freshest, funniest, and truly inclusive series on television. It’s a teen show that refuses to talk down to its audience (actually teenagers, presumably), and feels like it’s written by people who have a deep understanding of what it’s like to navigate the horny halls of a high school (even if they aren’t actual teenagers, presumably — the show’s creator is 30-something Laurie Nunn). 

Sex Education is legitimately educational (let’s talk about vulvas, baby) but it’s never preachy. From tackling everything from sexual assault, to coming out, to academic pressues, to what it’s like to be a nonbinary teenager, Sex Education is fearless, imaginative and authentic. And its secret ingredient, like most shows, is its Black cast. Ncuti Gatwa plays Eric, Otis’s best friend and a gay Black boy who exudes confidence and joy. This season, he’s figuring out his new relationship with his former bully turned boyfriend, Adam (Connor Swindells), and is continuing to steal every damn scene he’s in. Gatwa is a STAR. Kedar Williams-Stirling returns in an understated but strong performance as sweet jock Jackson and Chinenye Ezeudu is back as overachieving Viv, a character I wish I had been friends with in high school. But it’s Dua Saleh who plays Cal, a new face in Season 3 and Moordale Secondary School’s outspoken nonbinary student, who gives the standout performance of the season. They ooze charisma and cool, but also convey the frustrations that come with existing in a world that upholds gender binaries. 

If you are sick of the American Netflix teen series that love colorism as much as they love explaining how social media works (ahem, Gossip Girl), Sex Education is a refreshing antidote. Dark-skinned characters (especially dark Black girls or nonbinary kids, who are often sidelined on teen TV) not only exist, they get to have hopes, dreams and full interior lives. When we talk about representation on TV (which has turned into a shallow discussion lacking nuance), this is what we should be talking about. We should be lauding shows like Sex Education that don’t just sprinkle in characters of color, disabled characters, queer characters, or all of the above, for clout, but that actually delve deep into their stories. 

Sex Education doesn’t just sprinkle in characters of color, disabled characters, queer characters, or all of the above, for clout, but actually delves deep into their stories. 

How Good Is It? You know when a show is so good, you have to carve out an entire weekend to park your ass on your couch and savor every second? Yeah, that was me last weekend when Sex Education Season 3 dropped. I know not all of you dropped your plans to do the same (aka scream “yes, Netflix, I am still watching!” at your TV) so I’ll avoid spoilers — mostly. What I will say is this: this season is so good, I had to pause on multiple occasions to laugh until my cheeks hurt. It also made me cry a little. Get you a show that can do both. 

This season, we pick up with the unlikeliest of couples. Otis is having casual sex with the most popular girl in school, Ruby (Mimi Keene) while Eric and Adam are this close to going all the way. Since Adam used to literally bully our sweet Eric, how sweet they are together can be a little jarring — in a good way. And Ola (Patricia Allison) and Lily (Tanya Reynolds) are still going strong. The way this show handles the intricacies of teen relationships is SO good, I really don’t think any other show (including my beloveds Elite and Never Have I Ever) is even close to getting it this right. Take for example, how it handles when Eric and Adam try to have sex for the first time only to realize that they are both *spoiler alert* bottoms. The show plays the moment for laughs initially, but then settles into a poignant exploration of Adam’s communication issues. And Eric? Even though he’s got confidence to spare, he’s still new to the whole boyfriend thing too. Plus, I love how the show gets into Eric’s identity as British-Nigerian and what being gay in Nigeria means. It’s hard to describe what Ncuti Gatwa is doing with this character because every inflection, every movement and every line is so intentional and so full of purpose and light, only watching him can do the performance justice. Every episode, I am in awe of his work. 

The best thing about Sex Education is that it  repackages tropes in a unique way that never feels stale. The new overbearing headteacher, Hope (Girls alum Jemima Kirke), is a principal who is out to ruin all the kids’ fun. This is an overused trope in teen content (see The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Election) but here, Hope is used as a way for our besties at Moordale Secondary to assert their independence. Plus, she acts as a vessel to critique the antiquated thinking of generations past, even if that generation isn’t that old. When Hope tries to dismiss Cal’s gender identity, they call it out for the bullshit it is, and it makes for some of the season’s most compelling scenes. If you didn’t know Dua Saleh’s name before, you will now. They are an extraordinary talent. 

I haven’t even gotten to Aimee (Aimee Gibbs), who is reeling after her sexual assault on a bus last season, but she’s working through her PTSD with the help of her best friend Mauve (Emma Mackey), who is on her own journey of self discovery. Another thing this show does so well is depict real and honest female friendships. Aimee and Mauve will have you swooning at their love, even though it’s strictly platonic. 

Sex Education is a show about teens so it’s not going to get the praise for being one of the most progressive depictions of therapy on television or for having the most genuine sex scenes either (and the hottest love scene featuring a disabled character I’ve seen on TV, well, ever). It’s going to get overlooked for how smart it is and it’ll get misjudged because of its humor — kind of like teens themselves. But if TikTok has taught us anything, it’s that underestimating the youths is always a bad idea. Don’t make the mistake of missing out on one of the best shows on television, period.

What Else Is Good? 

• Divesting from award shows that continue to do us dirty. Read my good sis Ineye Komonibo on the topic.
• My former colleague Ariana Romero on Pose’sMichaela Jae Rodriguez, THEE icon.
• Lil Nas X singing Jolene.
• This is belated, but I finally finished Kiese Laymon’s Long Division and it is so very good.
• As always, defunding the police.

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Kathleen Newman-Bremang, DMT.NEWS, DMT BeautySpot,

The 73rd Primetime Emmy Awards are on Sunday (September 19). The prestigious awards show is usually how Hollywood gauges the best of the best of the most recent TV season. But we know that, typically, they don’t have the best track record when it comes to rewarding non-white talent, or shows that don’t fit into the very rigid, and often pretentious, criteria of “prestige TV.” 

While this year’s Emmys did get some things right (finally recognizing Pose and MJ Rodriguez, Lovecraft Country’s multiple noms, Michaela Coel and I May Destroy You getting the love she deserves), they still overlooked so many shows that we here at R29Unbothered couldn’t stop watching this 2020/2021 TV season. These are the series — new and returning — that made us laugh, cry, cheer, and feel a little less lonely in the loneliest times. Many of these shows feature incredible Black women leads, girls of color getting long overdue shine, riveting storylines, or all of the above. But mostly, these shows are just damn good. And while some of them will be the exceptions that get nominations, none of them need awards decided by archaic white institutions to solidify that fact. We’ll give them their flowers instead.

Here are R29Unbothered’s best TV shows of the year, picked personally by members of our team.

P-Valley 

Picked by Kathleen Newman-Bremang, Senior Editor 

P-Valley is based on Katori Hall’s 2015 play Pussy Valley and it’s about the lives of strippers  working down in the Dirty Delta in Mississippi. Even though its name may be censored, there’s nothing tame about the series. As I wrote in my review when it first dropped in summer 2020, “after the first episode, The Pynk club — and its cast of characters — starts to feel like home (you know, if your home was full of squeaky pleather, sky-high stilettos, and hollering patrons).” This show is a character-driven drama hiding under the spectacle of stripteases and trap beats, and I just feel like we moved on from it too quickly! 

Girls5Eva 

Picked by Chelsea Sanders, VP

Girls5Eva is about the members of a girl group (Sara Bareilles, Busy Phillips, Paula Pell and Renée Ellis Goldsberry) from the ‘90s who reunite after a young rapper samples their hit song. They decide to give their pop star dreams one last chance, but this time, all “while balancing spouses, kids, jobs, debt, aging parents, and shoulder pain,” according to the show’s tagline. This series is hilarious, heartwarming and packed with nostalgia (for us more, ahem, experienced millennials) and it’s infuriating that this perfect season came and went with little fanfare. As Chelsea puts it, “Renée Ellis Goldsberry is everythinggg!” Unrelated, Chelsea would also like a retroactive Emmy for Countess Vaughn in The Parkers.

Queen Sugar 

Picked by Brooke Obie, Deputy Director

Queen Sugar takes us deep into the rich and complicated lives of three siblings in rural Louisiana (Rutina Wesley, Dawn-Lyen Gardner, and Kofi Siriboe) who, when their father suddenly dies, must decide the fate of his 800-acre sugarcane farm. It’s on Season 6 and has yet to be nominated for any Emmys. Smells anti-Black to me! But seriously, this show is one of the best family dramas on television and aside from the Kofi Siriboe eye candy, it’s got so much soul, gutting performances and seering intensity. 

Ramy

Picked by Stephanie Long, Senior Editor 

Ramy is the perfect example of specificity being universal. It’s about Ramy (comedian Ramy Youssef), the son of Egyptian migrants living in New Jersey. He begins a spiritual journey which leads him to straddling the conflicts between his Muslim community, his neighborhood and his friends. Whether you are or aren’t part of Ramy’s communities, you’re going to relate to nuance articulations of identity in our daily lives and prickly but hilarious family tensions. Plus, there are incredible performances by Mahershala Ali and MaameYaa Boafo in Season 2, and thoughtful conversations about anti-Blackness in the Muslim community.

AlRawabi School for Girls

Picked by Ineye Komonibo, Culture Critic/Writer

Since you’re not a part of our work Slack chats, I’ll let you in on one of my fave Ineye rants: it’s about how Netflix’s international shows continue to body its American offerings. And she’s not wrong! AlRawabi School for Girls is an Arabic series that has been compared to Mean Girls, but that’s a lazy comparison; this show is a star of its own. Tell me you’re not sold based on the Netflix description alone: “The bullied outcasts at prestigious Al Rawabi School for Girls plot a series of risky takedowns to get back at their tormentors.”

Shadow and Bone

Picked by Rissa Papillion, Producer

Save for Game of Thrones, fantasy series usually don’t get a lot of love at award shows — especially not fantasy series starring Asian women. Jessie Mei Li stars in Shadow and Bone, an adaptation of the wildly popular trilogy, about “dark forces [who] conspire against orphan mapmaker Alina Starkov when she unleashes an extraordinary power that could change the fate of her war-torn world,” according to Netflix. The costumes are gorgeous, the action is thrilling and everyone is fine as hell. What more could you ask for? 

Elite

Picked by Ineye Komonibo, Culture Critic/Writer & Kathleen Newman-Bremang, Senior Editor 

We’ve called it Netflix’s sexiest teen show, but Elite is so much more than pretty people and their naked makeouts (that is a bonus, though). The Spanish series is one of the best murder mysteries on television, periodt. And in an era of TV where chemistry is lacking and everything seems recycled, Elite is unique, fresh, and brimming with actors who ooze onscreen charisma and connection. Two words: Guzman and Nadia. Sure, there may be too many suspicious deaths for one fancy prep school, but this show always keeps us on our toes. One of our colleagues called Elite “Gossip Girl-meets Big Little Lies–meets Cruel Intentions,” which is high praise, but I’m going to go so far as to say that this show is better than all three.   

The Underground Railroad 

Picked by Brooke Obie, Deputy Director

Barry Jenkins’ The Underground Railroad got unfairly cast aside as just another slave narrative when it first dropped earlier this year. If you did write off the show because of its subject matter (it’s based on the Colson Whitehead novel of the same name), you missed out on one of the greatest cinematic achievements in the history of television. I promise you’re going to want to give Cora — and her story of escaping a Georgia plantation to board a train seeking freedom while being hunted by a notorious slave catcher — a chance.

Clickbait 

Picked by Rissa Papillion, Producer & Christa Eduafo, Social Content Strategist

I haven’t seen this show yet, but what I do know is that Clickbait has Black women in a chokehold. The timeline has been popping off about the Adrian Grenier and Betty Gabriel series, which follows a man named Nick Brewer and his family when he is abducted and subjected to a sinister online twist. His friends and family then race to uncover who kidnapped him and why. Critics say it will have you hooked from the first minute to the last. If for nothing else, watch this show to see what all the hype is about. 

Money Heist

Picked by Sandy Pierre, Branded Execution Specialist & Christa Eduafo, Social Content Strategist

Money Heist is another Netflix international original that goes harder than anything else the streaming service has to offer. As the logline goes, “to carry out the biggest heist in history, a mysterious man called The Professor recruits a band of eight robbers who have a single characteristic: none of them have anything to lose.” Now on Part 5, the show is a massive hit, and has actually garnered some Emmy love, winning the International Emmy Award for Best Drama Series. And rightly so! We love it for its stellar cast, nail-biting suspense, and brilliant twists. 

Starstruck

Picked by Kathleen Newman-Bremang, Senior Editor 

All I will say about this show is that I watched all six episodes in one sitting and then immediately ran them back and watched them again. It’s that good. If you don’t know Rose Matafeo’s name or her work, Starstruck will leave you begging for more of her. The comedian wrote, created, and stars in this rom-com series about a messy millennial woman in London who accidentally sleeps with one of the most famous movie stars in the world. It’s like a gender-reversed Notting Hill with people of color. I was, and still am, obsessed with every single moment of this funny and romantic romp. 

In Treatment

Picked by Brooke Obie, Deputy Director

When I interviewed Uzo Aduba for In Treatment, we talked about the Black Lady Therapist trope and how her character, Dr. Brooke Taylor, is finally bringing depth to Black therapists on screen. That’s just one of the many reasons to tune into this continuation of the beloved series. Dr. Taylor virtually sees patients from home amidst the pandemic, and in this season, as we see her treating a new patient each episode (including my boyfriend-in-my-head, Anthony Ramos), it’s not just her clients who gain some catharsis. Watching this series while the world crumbles was just what the doctor (our actual therapists) ordered. 

Mr. Inbetween

Picked by Stephanie Long, Senior Editor 

Mr. Inbetween is a half-hour Australian dramedy about a man named Ray Shoesmith, who is an assassin by night, and a father and friend by day. The show, based on Scott Ryan’s 2005 film The Magician, follows Ray trying to juggle the juxtaposition of being a killer and a lover. Critics have called it “violent” but “with a wicked sense of fun,” and now I feel like I know so much more about Steph based on this pick. 

Scenes from a Marriage 

Picked by Brooke Obie, Deputy Director

Brooke would like to clarify that she is specifically recommending Nicole Beharie’s performance in Scenes from a Marriage because, obviously, Beharie steals every scene she’s ever been in. This show is an adaptation of the beloved 1973 Swedish television miniseries written and directed by Ingmar Bergman. This version stars noted chemistry experts Oscar Isaac and Jessica Chastain who play a couple in a marriage falling apart. No word on if there will be any bicep kisses.

Never Have I Ever

Picked by Kathleen Newman-Bremang, Senior Editor 

Never Have I Ever isn’t perfect. It’s got some questionable jokes, and has the audacity to sideline Niecy Nash, but it has brought me too much joy in the past year to ignore. Maitreyi Ramakrishnan (a star!) plays Devi, a teenager navigating the death of her father and the frustrations of high school. In so many ways, Devi and her disastrous dating life and bursts of rage are the representation us second-generation kids of color have been waiting for. Plus, there’s a side storyline involving Common that I won’t spoil for you, but if teen shenanigans aren’t your thing, there’s something for the grownups too. 

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Kathleen Newman-Bremang, DMT.NEWS, DMT BeautySpot,

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Welcome to “What’s Good,” where we break down what’s soothing, distracting, or just plain good in the streaming world with a “rooting for everybody Black” energy. Enjoy! 

What’s Good? Black art is good — but not always. And *spoiler alert* THAT’S OK. I usually use this space to tell you what to watch. I typically reserve this column for the pieces of pop culture I love so much I need everyone else to love them too. But when I love a TV show or movie, I’m the person who reads everything I can find about it — the good and the bad. Both are valid. Both help me either admire or understand the work even more. Critiquing means I care. But somewhere in the depths of the discourse about how Representation Matters™, we lost the plot. Somehow it was decided that the presence of a Black creator or Black actors onscreen is enough to render a project impenetrable. PSA: things aren’t inherently good just because they are Black — things aren’t inherently anything just because they are Black. The thirst for white acceptance or the fear that white gatekeepers will never greenlight a Black project again if we say anything bad about one seems to have overridden a basic tenet of art: the ability to consume, appreciate, and evaluate it as we please. 

The value of Black criticism — who gets to critique Black art and whether that art should be judgment-proof just by virtue of the fact that Black-led projects are still rare in Hollywood — has been up for debate in recent years as representation has increased. Since Queen & Slim divided our timelines (I liked it, until some very smart critics made me reconsider) and the reaction to Malcolm & Marie (which spent half the movie shitting on criticism) proved that stan culture has rendered thoughtful interrogation of works starring celebrities we love impossible without backlash to the backlash, it’s BEEN time to talk about the necessity of Black critics. Especially now, when every other Black-led project seems to be steeped in senseless trauma, it’s more imperative to have Black critics delving into which projects are constructive (The Underground Railroad) and which ones are destructive (Them).

When every other Black-led project seems to be steeped in senseless trauma, it’s imperative to have Black critics delving into which projects are constructive (The Underground Railroad) and which ones are destructive (Them).

Sure, it’s a little self-serving to devote an entire column to the importance of my own profession but the world of culture criticism is still overwhelmingly white and I’m tired of seeing Black critics deemed traitors to our race just for daring to think critically about the work we’ve just experienced. Plus, it’s not just bad Black projects that need to be critiqued by Black writers (and no, Michael Che, a fair yet mediocre review by a Black critic doesn’t mean that a publication is hiding behind that critic’s Blackness; it means your shit is mediocre). The good stuff needs critique too. One of my favorite recent reviews was The Undefeated’s Soraya McDonald’s stunning rumination on Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom and the collision of “two Black Americas” as she calls it. In her review, she examines the relationship between old vs. new, South vs. North, Levee (Chadwick Boseman) vs. Ma (Viola Davis), freedom vs. liberation and past vs. present. She does August Wilson’s masterpiece justice with masterful and poetic writing of her own, praising the nuance in his prose. A white critic couldn’t have done all of that. Oftentimes, art is supposed to be a mirror of society. And conversations surrounding art are only enriched and elevated by perspectives that capture the different facets of how it speaks to us. For too long, we’ve only been getting one viewpoint (read: old white men) — and our cultural understanding of art has been reduced because of it.

Another critic whose work I am obsessed with is Vulture’s Angelica Jade Bastien. She did not like Ma Rainey. She called the dialogue “stilted” and “laughable” and denigrated the film as “a lifeless endeavor.” I disagree with Bastien (I really liked Ma Rainey) but when she eviscerates a film, it’s artful in its own right. Plus, she made some points. Bastien brought up discussions we absolutely need to be having about Black representation. In the review, Bastien writes, “Many of the [recent] works being made available — such as horror films and series, including Bad Hair, Lovecraft Country, and Antebellum — feel like they take advantage of an audience’s desire to see themselves onscreen without offering any of the potency or finesse necessary to make these stories work.” She’s right. A white critic couldn’t have done all of that either. 

So, to answer the question, Black criticism is good. Always. And necessary.                      

Who It’s Good For: Despite what the comment section of reviews would have you believe, Black critiques of Black art are actually good for business. They’re good for Black art. And whether the takes are negative or not, they are good for the betterment of Black creators. As Tonja Renée Stidhum wrote in a piece called If You Want to Protect Black Art, Protect Black Critique for The Root, it’s not as easy for Black creators who have to deal with the “structurally racist rigamarole” in Hollywood. Financing, distribution and publicity all depend on a system set up for people who look like us to fail. That fact then puts unfair pressure on Black artists to be all things to Black people, and for their work’s success to be a barometer of all Black success. But, Stidhum notes, “the fear of getting a second chance is a heavyweight burden upon Black critics’ shoulders—and it’s certainly not ours to bear. The assumption that Black art cannot handle critique is patronizing, condescending and far more insulting than any negative review will ever be.” SPEAK ON IT. 

When Lena Waithe was met with less-than-stellar reviews of the brutal, graphic and gratuitous depictions of Black trauma in the Amazon horror anthology series she produced called Them, she got defensive. “White male artists get chances all the time,” Waithe told POPSUGAR in reference to the show’s creator Little Marvin. “Nobody’s telling a white dude, ‘Hey, don’t do that,’ or maybe we are, but the truth is, Black artists deserve to be free to tell whatever story they want to tell. We at least deserve that.” What Black artists deserve is equity and to be judged on the quality of their work, not in relation to whiteness. 

Yes, white artists do get to fail more than Black artists but by that logic, we have to actually let Black artists fail. In my opinion, Them is a failure because of how it handles trauma (like pain is the priority and purpose of the art) and if we are not able to say that just because it was made by Black people, we are buying into the same Hollywood system that treats us as a monolith and keeps us out of the rooms that make the decisions about which stories should get Amazon series and which movies should get greenlit. 

Black voices writing about Black series can be just as important as the Black show writers themselves. They both exist in an ecosystem that doesn’t thrive without the other.

On the other hand, Barry Jenkins’ The Underground Railroad understands the assignment and treats traumatic events in Black history with care, consideration and depth. Reggie Ugwo’s praise for the show and his handling of this profile in the New York Times of the visionaries behind the series proves that Black voices writing about Black series can be just as important as the Black show writers themselves. They both exist in an ecosystem that doesn’t thrive without the other. 

I understand not wanting to bash Black creators — I am constantly “rooting for everybody Black” — but people need to stop viewing fair criticism as a public berating and see it as it is: an interrogation and extension of the work. Sometimes that analysis may include a larger cultural context (when a work involves trauma for example) and sometimes it’s just going to tell you whether something is worth your time. It doesn’t have to be more than that. But the best people to discern whether Black art is aiming for cultural relevance and failing or whether it’s just a celebration of our joy and humanity are the critics who know Black humanity intimately. So, you know, actual Black people. 

If Black art is supposed to be for us and by us, why shouldn’t Black criticism have the same energy? 

How Good Is It? You know that meme of Jennifer Hudson throwing her shoe at a singer on The Voice like she just heard the voice of God leave a human body in a church pew? When I read a good piece of criticism, that’s what I do in my head. I throw my proverbial shoes. 

No one is better at giving us our own well-deserved flowers than Black folk. And no one is better at holding artists accountable in real time than us. Black criticism is good because as we strive towards a Hollywood that is no longer held up by gatekeepers and built on barriers that exclude Black excellence, it’s time to take whiteness out of the equation. If there’s no quest for white acceptance, there’s no fear that Black backlash will hinder that pursuit. This isn’t about white people at all. Sometimes, Black art is our business and focusing more on art and criticism being in conversation instead of in opposition will lead to a liberation even duelling timelines can’t deny. 

What Else Is Good?

• As mentioned, The Underground Railroad is very good, but Barry Jenkins’ video essay The Gaze about the “Black gaze” in his work is even better.

• Want good Black art? Watch Miss Juneteenth, Fast Color, Selah and the Spades, and theThe Forty Year Old Version. Then read Lovia Gyarkye, Soraya McDonald, my brilliant colleague Ineye Komonibo, and me on each of those works. 

• Good Trouble has taken over my life so the 31 episodes (two seasons) of this show I have invested in have forced me to tell everyone in earshot to come on this journey with Callie and Mariana Adams-Foster, my girl Malika, and their coterie family with me.

• As always, defunding the police.

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Kathleen Newman-Bremang, Khareem Sudlow

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Gone are the days of boy-band induced hysteria in Times Square outside of MTV’s Total Request Live (TRL for the real ones) and stunt tours packed with the bold-faced names of the early 2000s like Nelly, Eve, Jessica Simpson, 3LW, Dream and headliners Destiny’s Child on the same bill. We’ll probably never see Mariah Carey casually drop by a studio during a live taping or watch a python straddle Britney Spears’ shoulders while she bends time and space with the sheer force of her swagger. But mostly, we’ll never catch Beyoncé slipping ever again. 

Twenty years ago on May 8, 2001, the baby-faced lead singer of the biggest girl group in the world made her film acting debut in MTV’s Carmen: A Hip Hopera in the titular role at 19 years old. The movie musical — a reimagining of the 1875 opera, Carmen, from French composer Georges Bizet, and its subsequent all-Black Broadway adaptation, Carmen Jones — was a big event. It brought together the who’s who of rap royalty of the era: Jermaine Dupri, Mos Def (now Yasiin Bey), Da Brat, Wyclef Jean, Rah Digga and Lil Bow Wow. What a time. Playing opposite Bey as Sgt. Derek Hill was none other than early aughts heartthrob, an Internet Boyfriend before Internet Boyfriends, the inimitable Mekhi Phifer who proved he has mad skills on the mic as well as in a monologue. But all of that couldn’t save Carmen: A Hip Hopera from an uneven script, mediocre reviews and takes from pundits who attested that Bey should stick to singing. 

This is some of the messiest and horniest work Beyoncé has ever given us and we’ll never get the chance to see her as unpolished, or as problematic, again. 

Listen, we don’t speak ill of Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter, first of her name, in this house. We at Team Unbothered, like good commoners and card-carrying members of the Beyhive, bow down to our Queen Bey and her unmatched excellence. Long may she reign. However, we also like to keep it real. And anyone who worships at the altar of Beyoncé knows that she has exactly one weakness: her inability to disappear into a role or deliver an acting performance half as good as anything she gives us on stage. And that’s OK. Queen Bey has given us so much. It’s truly the least she can do to show us that she isn’t perfect at everything — and since she doesn’t do that anymore, Carmen is one of the few examples we have left of pre-perfectionist “until I see some of my notes applied, it doesn’t make sense for me to make more” Beyoncé. But that doesn’t mean she’s terrible in this movie. Remember, it was her acting debut. Director Robert Townsend (B*A*P*S, The Five Heartbeats) told VIBE that he had to “fight” MTV execs for Bey to be considered for the role and sang her praises throughout the press tour. “There are certain people who have never acted that don’t want to look stupid,” Townsend said to the LA Times. “But Beyoncé was willing to step up and play. She has really good instincts, and was really comfortable in front of the camera.”

That comfort (which is most evident in the scenes with Carmen’s best friends Rasheeda and Nikki played by Rah Digga and Joy Bryant proving that Beyoncé wasn’t exactly ready to go solo yet) and willingness to “look stupid” is why Carmen: A Hip Hopera is such a gem. There’s a raw quality to Bey’s performance — from her hesitant flirting to confidently dropping bars on bars — that acts as a time capsule of a superstar before her prime, and a glimpse of her future as the greatest rapper of our generation. I said what I said. As much as there are flashes of brilliance in Carmen: A Hip Hopera, there is also the mess. 

Carmen, the character, is messy as hell. When we first meet her, she’s hitting on a man in front of his girlfriend and proving the Jezebel stereotype that plagues Black women in pop culture was alive and well in 2001 (while Missy Elliott served as a producer on the film, it was mostly helmed by men). The entire plot revolves around us rooting for Carmen’s relationship with Hill (Phifer) and the night they met he was still engaged to someone else. But Carmen, as Hill boasts in a rhyme (written by Sekani Williams, music by Kip Collins), is anything but common and her ambition to be a Hollywood actress outweighs her love for Hill, even though the man went to prison for her. She moves on quickly to a rapper named Blaze (Leroy Casey) before meeting a tragic fate at the hands of egomaniacal men (spoilers don’t count two decades later!). Throughout, she uses seduction and success as her motivations until both prove to be her downfall. This is some of the messiest and horniest work Beyoncé has ever given us and we’ll never get the chance to see her as unpolished, or as problematic, again. 

With the clarity of hindsight and 2021 vision, you could read Carmen: A Hip Hopera as an anti-police, prison abolitionist manifesto (free Bow Wow!), or as a reductive tale of gold diggers and homewreckers, or as a remake ahead of its time which paved the way for another “hip hopera” which changed Broadway forever (I’m not saying Carmen crip-walked so Hamilton could run but I’m also not not saying that), or you could just have some fun with it. Here, some of our very own bold-faced names of Team Unbothered revisit the 2001 classic and share their unfiltered thoughts. Beygency, please forgive us. 

Laurise McMillian, Content Strategy Editor & Head of Social

It made for such a fun girls night but I felt like I was watching narrative porn in the beginning. Softcore porn! I was like holy shit, Bey. And the plot was like what the fuck? When did [Carmen and Hill] fall in love? They knew each other for two seconds. There was a moment when Beyoncé cooked breakfast and I was like, which frat bro wrote this fantasy in here? It was definitelllllllyyyy directed by a man. So ridiculous. 

There was a moment when Beyoncé cooked breakfast and I was like, which frat bro wrote this fantasy?

Laurise McMillian

The positives: Joy Bryant is fucking HOTTT. And the acting was good if it was indeed that. Mekhi Phifer carried the whole film, but nobody is surprised. Wait, I forgot about MOS DEF. I take it back. He carried the film. He was his normal nonchalant self but as usual it worked. Beyonce in low-rider jeans was an amazing moment. No wonder they’re coming back. I loved seeing Rah Digga and Joy Bryant take Blaze’s money and tear up L.A.! Very hot girl summer energy. Lil Bow Wow in jail had me in tears laughing. 

Ineye Komonibo, Entertainment Writer 

Watching this 20 years later, it’s so cringe LMAO. I keep wondering if Beyoncé looks back at these days when she was so much more out there as a young person and gets embarrassed. Or is she like, “Yeah, I did that!” Also, Beyoncé really has been THEE lyricist forever. She didn’t write her lyrics obviously, but our girl has been nice with the flow for a very long time. 

Carmen: A Hip Hopera is a reminder that Beyoncé has been about the culture since she first hit the scene.

Ineye Komonibo

Finally, even though the movie isn’t talked about as much (given the cringe-factor, I low-key understand why), Carmen: A Hip Hopera is a reminder that Beyoncé really has been about the culture since she first hit the scene. This is a Black production through and through, and she was at the center of it all — just like she’s always been.

Chelsea Sanders – VP

Ok first of all, where did our star-studded movies go? Mekhi Phifer. Mos Def. Wyclef. Da Brat. Joy Bryant. Bow Wow when he was still ‘Lil. This movie is packed with every early aughts Black star they could find — this is lyrical history, people. While we’re giving out flowers, we need to give Robert Townsend all of them because he directed all the classics of my adolescence – this masterpiece, B.A.P.S., The Five Heartbeats! He knows exactly what he’s doing with this musical journey with Queen Bey. Even though I have some notes on Beyoncé’s  acting, this movie was crafted around her, as it should be.  

Let’s also give a moment for Beyoncé’s range in this classic, because we already know she’s serving House of Dereon meets Crossroads looks.

Chelsea Sanders

Let’s also give a moment for Beyoncé’s range in this classic, because we already know she’s serving House of Dereon meets Crossroads (another classic) looks. That range more than makes up for the mid-tier budget MTV gave this. Rapping Beyoncé is arguably my favorite Beyoncé and she’s giving me all the “Top Off,” “Feeling Myself,” “Upgrade U” energy we need. By the end of this viewing, I’m convinced Carmen is in the top two Bey, the rapper moments and it ain’t number two. 

Everything about this plot is problematic, but that honestly made it easier to not get caught up in the details of what’s actually going on. Save for Carmen’s “where them dollars at?” attitude, we can leave the rest of this reductive Jezebel-turned-tame-housewife-with-big -dreams-she-can-only-achieve-by-scheming narrative behind. Also, we all know Beyonce doesn’t cook, so this is truly a work of (highly entertaining) fiction. We can thank Da Brat’s rhinestone durag for that. Signing off, Chelsea “Curves Like a Cul de Sac” Sanders. 

Brooke Obie, Deputy Director

I tried watching Carmen. I really tried. it’s so bad! It’s SO bad. The whole cast deserved better than those corny lyrics. Also the plot is nonsense. Why would aiding Carmen who committed a petty misdemeanor at best result in prison time for Mekhi Phifer? Nonsense. That was where I cut it off. I would love a remake starring Chloe Bailey with bars written by Beyoncé’s team. But that’s from about 15 minutes of watching. That was all I could take. Love you, Bey!

The plot is nonsense.

brooke obie

Sydney Clarke – 2030 Fellow

I didn’t know Carmen: A Hip Opera existed until… last week. I felt like I was transported to another world while watching it. The low-rise jeans that sit right above everyone’s butt crack, Beyonce’s constant hair changes and the surprising bar scuffle at the beginning were just the start. Cops are still crooked and doggish like Lt. Miller (Mos Def), while Hill spent his time being crazy in love (I had to) with Carmen who seemingly popped up out of nowhere in her  red dress. 

When Carmen auditions in California, the casting director asks her to be “more urban, more Black” and Carmen responds with utter confusion, as she should, because being Black is not a monolith. This scene brought up memories of my childhood being told I wasn’t Black enough or I spoke like a white girl which left me feeling distanced from the capital B, capital E, Black Experience. It reminded me that sometimes the dreams we want for ourselves are guarded by the most out of touch gatekeepers who are there because of convenience and oftentimes because of their race. 

Throughout the movie, I thought Carmen was the worst and the root of all the trouble that unfolded, but at some point I was rooting for her.

Sydney Clarke

Throughout the movie, I thought Carmen was the worst and root of all the trouble that unfolded, but at some point I was rooting for her. When she realized her relationship with Hill wasn’t working, she removed herself from it. She took the results of her spiritual reading (shoutout to our colleague Stephanie Long and her tarot reading piece, because clearly Black girls were in love with mysticism in 2001) and made a move that would put her in a position to live life instead of scrape by and survive with what little time she had left. 

To my surprise, I actually enjoyed the music a lot. Everyone understood the musical assignment and delivered. Hopefully, this summer I can channel some of the Black Girl Magic Rasheeda, Nikki, and Carmen had because they were an example of true friends. They built each other up and I loved seeing that play out. They remind me of my girlfriends and the bond I have with them, knowing that I can go to them to build me up, make me smile, and keep it real with me when I need a reality check.

Sandy Pierre, Branded Execution Specialist

My initial thoughts when it first started was wow this is kinda bad. The transitions into different scenes were as basic as can be, but then I remembered it was made in 2001. As I got into it, I started feeling it. As annoying as Mos Def was, he spit the best lyrics. It was a vibe! I also totally forgot Mekhi Phifer could low-key rap. 

I guess hoes deserve to be happy too.

Sandy Pierre

Now, let’s get into Carmen. She confused me a bit. She started out as being this promiscuous girl going after people’s men then she fell in love with Hill. I guess hoes deserve to be happy too and in the end she only cared about her career (which she wasn’t good at) Also when she wanted him to break his parole to be with her, that was screaming toxic! He also grew somewhat of an obsession with her that wasn’t healthy. My man Hill was going crazy! I want my man to love me but I don’t know about that much, where it becomes a little scary. Bey and Wyclef singing “The Cards Never Lie” was my favorite song back then and it still hit the same. But the music scene she did with her friends in her apartment was horrible!!! Overall, I wasn’t mad at it. It was definitely a ghetto Hollywood love story.

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The 2021 Oscars, like Tyler Perry’s speech, almost had me. 

The broadcast started with a beaming Regina Thee King doing what she does best: being flawless. The cold open relied on King’s sheer formidable presence alone with a live shot of her strutting into Union Station in Los Angeles, the human embodiment of an opening credits scene. It worked — I was rapt. There was a sense of  hope that this show might actually leave me with a feeling other than rage, unlike Oscar ceremonies  past. King’s monologue included a reference to the Derek Chauvin verdict and the trial where he was convicted of murdering George Floyd. “If things had gone differently this past week in Minneapolis, I might have traded in my heels for marching boots,” she said. “I know that a lot of you people at home want to reach for your remote when you feel like Hollywood is preaching to you, but as a mother of a Black son, I know the fear that so many live with, and no amount of fame or fortune changes that.” King, as she does, set the bar high. 

From there, the 93rd Academy Awards had me wishing more artists had traded in their designer shoes for their proverbial “marching boots.” Perry, if he even owns a pair, decided to leave his at home while accepting the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award. After starting out strong with a moving story about a homeless woman who, coincidentally, just wanted a pair of shoes, Perry called for the audience to “refuse hate” and said, “I refuse to hate someone because they are Mexican or because they are Black, LGBTQ. I refuse to hate someone because they are a police officer. I refuse to hate someone because they are Asian.” As many people on Twitter pointed out, one of these things is not like the other. A police officer is not a part of a marginalized or oppressed community. Policing is a chosen profession, not an ethnicity or identity. Police officers are built, not born. Casting out hate is important, of course, but conflating these groups of people is not only careless, but it’s also dangerous. It justifies the lazy false equivalency between “Blue Lives Matter” and Black Lives Matter. This language favors reform as opposed to abolition. Any “hate” people are directing at police officers is because they engage in state-sanctioned violence, disproportionately killing the very groups Perry is preaching that people should not hate. He should have been speaking to police officers instead of trying to protect them. But when police exist to protect rich people’s property over human lives, it’s no wonder Perry chose class over conscience. 

“Change” does not happen “in the middle.” Change happens when we finally start refusing to accept that our humanity is up for debate.

The ending of Perry’s speech, like the conclusion of the Oscars, left me livid. Perry implored us to “stand in the middle because that’s where healing happens… that’s where change happens, it happens in the middle,” he said. I would just like to ask Tyler Perry where the middle is on anti-Black racism. Where is the middle on transphobia? Where is the middle on anti-Asian hate crimes? Where is the middle on the murder of Black and brown folk at the hands of police? “Change” does not happen “in the middle.” Change happens when you finally start refusing to accept that our humanity is up for debate. Change happens when you stop believing there is a middle ground when it comes to the murder and dehumanization of our communities. Revolutions “don’t happen by accident”. But this idea of healing by meeting in the middle is exactly the kind of sentiment the Academy loves to celebrate. This ideal lets racist white people off the hook and lets them feel warm and fuzzy about treating the value of Black life as a gray area. This is the governing body who gave Green Book a Best Picture award, remember? It’s the same one who kicked homeless people out of Union Station so they could hold a fancy event that awarded a movie about homelessness as Best Picture (making Perry’s story about homelessness even more sickeningly ironic). It was no surprise to me that Perry’s “meet in the middle” speech was met with a standing ovation. 

However, one of the biggest surprises of the Steven Soderbergh-produced broadcast was its missing film clips. A show known in past years for endless movie montages and onslaughts of meticulously-chosen scenes to showcase the acting nominees’ talent was lacking both until about halfway through. The absence of actually seeing the nominated films was strange, but it also revealed the larger missing element: a rebellious spirit. 

Even aside from Perry’s, speeches that mentioned social justice, especially when it came to the brutal injustices dealt to Black people in America, were light on protest language. H.E.R. won her first Oscar for Best Original Song and gave a very pretty speech saying in part, “knowledge is power, music is power and I will always fight for what is right.” What exactly is right though? Best Live Action Short winner Travon Free was more specific. “Today the police will kill three people…on average the police in America every day kill three people, which amounts to about a thousand people a year,” he said. “And those people happen to disproportionately be Black people.” He went on to plead — presumably to white people watching —  “Please don’t be indifferent to our pain.” Call me cynical, but after the last year, we shouldn’t still have to beg for our humanity on national television. Again, I would like to ask Tyler Perry, where’s the middle ground on what Free said in his speech? Free’s acceptance was the best of the night, but I still wish he pushed a little harder. Instead of pleading for non-Black people not to be indifferent, I wish he’d called on them to actively participate in our liberation. I wish he’d said the words, “Defund The Police.” 

By the time the show got to the Best Picture nominations, it was jarring not only to finally see some clips, but also to see which snippet the producers chose to highlight from Judas and the Black Messiah. In the clip, Black Panther Chairman Fred Hampton (Daniel Kaluuya) is giving an impassioned speech about how revolutions can’t die. “You can murder a liberator, but you can’t murder a liberation. You can murder a revolutionary, but you can’t murder a revolution,” he shouts as Hampton. “You can murder a freedom fighter, but you can’t murder freedom.” Kaluuya earned his Oscar in the delivery in this powerful clip alone, but set against the backdrop of an awards show that pats itself on the back for platitudes while snuffing out any signs of revolution within its own institution (see the story of how The Academy ended the career of actress Sacheen Littlefeather, who turned down Marlon Brando’s Best Actor Oscar for him in 1973), it felt hollow and impudent. 

These exceptions aren’t real progress. Hollywood isn’t really going to change. It just wants us to think it will. 

And now for my Issa Rae “deep, heavy, negro spiritual sigh,” because it’s time to talk about that ending. In a rare move for the Oscars broadcast, Best Picture was not the final category of the night. It came before the big acting awards so the final Oscar of the night would go to the Best Actor. The late Chadwick Boseman was heavily favored to win the category and so, the Oscars basically used his legacy to get people to stay tuned until the end. In a surprise twist the producers clearly didn’t see coming, Boseman lost to 83-year-old Anthony Hopkins for his role in The Father.  I’m not going to get into all the ways this snub was disrespectful to Boseman’s legacy and to the fans who were watching the Oscars to feel the closure and catharsis of our superhero getting his final flowers. I’ll just say that this outcome, and the fact that the last time the Best Actor and/or Actress went to Black people was in 2006 (Forest Whitaker) and 2002 (Halle Berry and Denzel Washington) respectively, is a testament to how much the Oscars are truly in their flop era. Hollywood may try to hide behind “making history” and how “diverse” the winners were this year (Chloe Zhao became the first woman of color to win Best Director, and Mia Neal and Jamika Wilson are the first Black women to win for hair and makeup), but it’s been 93 years—these exceptions aren’t real progress. Hollywood isn’t really going to change. It just wants us to think it will. 

As I sat on my couch with my head in my hands in silence after Hopkins’ abrupt win, processing what had just happened, I was pissed — mostly at myself. I know better than to trust the institution of The Oscars; the one set up to add more barriers for Black creators to secure funding or breakthrough in Hollywood. These golden statues can be tickets to career stability, creative freedom, or just a plain-old deserved celebration, but when they are rarely afforded to Black artists, the system becomes even more rigged against them. Every year, we show up hopeful this one may be different. We attempt to meet the Academy in the middle. Please don’t be indifferent to our pain, we plead. 

Maybe it’s because of the year we’ve had. Maybe I’m just even more convinced after that mess of a broadcast that the Oscars are as irrelevant of an institution as the ones that “serve and protect” America. Maybe I’m just tired. As a fan of film and a firm believer that movies can move minds and make people feel less alone, my bar is as high as the one Regina King sets with her very presence. But I’m no longer willing to beg for our humanity or to appeal to be honored by an outdated awards show that continues to disrespect Black talent (with a few well-placed exceptions).

There’s no middle ground on Black excellence. You’re either on the side of Black inclusion, equity and freedom in Hollywood, or you’re not. We’ll be closer to revolution, to liberation, to freedom, the moment we stop accepting these crumbs of “compromise.”

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In the 1998 cult classic Half Baked, Mary Jane Potman (The Craft’s Rachel True) is the sole Black woman in a sea of male stoners. The cast is led by a young and roguish Dave Chappelle as Thurgood, “a master of the custodial arts” (or “janitor, if you want to be a dick about it,” he quips), who smokes weed like it’s his job but hides this fact from his love interest Mary Jane. See, Mary Jane is adamantly anti-cannabis. So much so, it becomes her entire personality. When we first meet her, she’s visiting her father in prison while Thurgood is checking in on a friend. Outside of the jail, Thurgood and Mary Jane run into his fully-baked buddies, Brian and Scarface. 

“Do you smoke?” Brian asks Mary Jane. “No, my grandmother died from lung cancer,” she deadpans. “That’s all the more reason to toke up man! It’ll ease the pain!” Throughout the movie, Mary Jane is the straight-laced “good girl” who exists to remind Thurgood and his friends that weed is bad. Her father is incarcerated for dealing the drug afterall, making Mary Jane a sobering cautionary tale. She is there to look pretty and to lob stoner jokes up to the men, while she sits on the sidelines, raining on their proverbial parade.

“I was in my hotel room in Toronto smoking weed while working on my lines that said stuff like, ‘that’s a gateway drug.’ I thought, how do I say this sentence and mean it? Because I don’t believe that!” True tells R29 Unbothered over Zoom from her home in Los Angeles. Twenty-three years after the film’s release, True recalls getting high throughout the film shoot and laughing at the irony of it all. “When I was cast in that role all my friends died laughing because they knew how much I loved weed,” she says. “I didn’t want to be the one character who was like ‘No, weed is bad!’ I probably smoked while I was preparing for the audition like [pretends to take a drag and inhales] ‘OK sure weed is terrible!’” True fake coughs the last line as she exhales — it’s a  hilarious off-hand delivery that could be the opening scene of her own stoner movie. But the truth is, if True were up for a role in a comedy about weed today, she would probably still play the killjoy girlfriend who refuses to take a hit  — that is, if there was even a role for her to audition for at all. Black women continue to be largely missing from the smokey and storied space in pop culture that is the stoner film canon. 

When I was cast in [Half Baked] all my friends died laughing because they knew how much I loved weed.

RACHEL TRUE

A lot has changed since 1978’s Up In Smoke, the hazy Cheech and Chong buddy comedy that many credit as the first stoner movie. Since weed is becoming widely decriminalized and legalized, the drug’s  onscreen depiction — and who’s getting high in front of the camera —  has changed too. It’s not just dimwitted dudes passing puffs in between grunts anymore. And yet, Black women have still been largely left behind in the genre.

It’s not because of a lack of demand. When I tweeted an all-call looking for Black women who love weed and pop culture to be interviewed for this story, my DMs were flooded with women who crave content where they can see themselves reflected. In VICE Media Group’s fourth annual survey of cannabis usage, 86% of Black female respondents are current weed users and 80% say the media does not feature an inclusive or diverse group of users in the cannabis space and they want that to change. “As this industry continues to grow, there are a lot of Black female businesses and consumers,” Janay Brown, CEO of hemp paper company GROWF, says over the phone from Virginia. “If that was showcased in TV shows and movies, I think it would open up the public’s eyes to the fact that all these people owning dispensaries or smoking weed now aren’t just these rich, white individuals.” 

We know that representation in movies or TV of Black women who smoke weed may not solve any real systemic problems — like the fact that Black people are four times more likely to be arrested for weed-related offences than white people or that the current cannabis industry is overwhelmingly white— but these contributions to the culture are just plain fun. Black women deserve to revel in the joy of these comedies, too, says filmmaker Sasha Leigh Henry (Black Bodies, Bitches Love Brunch). “So much of our existence in the cinematic landscape is very tied to strife and struggle,” she says over Zoom from Toronto. “Weed is associated with release, relief and joy. We are often not encouraged or allowed to engage in those things on screen. I think it’s partly a symptom of the fact that there’s such a limited scope for how Black women currently exist on screen in general.” 

That limited scope is so apparent in the stoner movie genre that True’s role in Half Baked makes it one of the few exceptions just by virtue of there being a Black woman with speaking lines at all. When you think of movies where weed is a character in and of itself, you probably picture white guys like Seth Rogen or James Franco (see: Pineapple Express or This Is The End). Or maybe The Dude in The Big Lebowski comes to mind. Or the dudes from Dude, Where’s My Car? There’s Matthew McConaughey as Woodersoon in Dazed and Confused and Bill and Ted from Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure (though Keanu Reeves swears the duo aren’t stoners — sure, Ted). Along with Cheech and Chong, the Harold & Kumar franchise sprinkles some color into the genre. But when you do see the rare case of Black representation in these films, it’s also men. And yet, aside from Method Man and Redman’s How High and Ice Cube and Chris Tucker in Friday, Black men are typically either sketchy dealers or inconsequential sidekicks. 

So much of our existence in the cinematic landscape is very tied to strife and struggle. Weed is associated with release, relief, joy. We are not allowed to engage in those things onscreen.

sasha leigh henry

When it comes to toking up on television, That ‘70s Show is the prototypical stoner show of the late ‘90s and early 2000s and the sole Black woman character (Angie Barnett played by Megalyn Echikunwoke) didn’t show up until the seventh and second-to-last season. Aside from dating Kelso briefly and being related to Hyde, her presence was largely insignificant to the plot (I watched this show and barely remembered she existed). Conversely, white women have slowly started to get their due as TV stoners. Weeds, Broad City, and High Maintenance have shown white women being proud potheads — smoking, vaping, and dealing weed with abandon. 

In a Rolling Stone article from 2015 titled “What Does A Woman Pothead Look Like?” the writer attests that prototypical stoner movies depict “a world where women were either unwanted interlopers or juicy stoner-chick accessories, passively scoring weed from the guys who allowed them to be present.” Even the exceptions she lists are all white: First Wives Club, Saving Grace, Smiley Face, 9 to 5, and Sex and the City. The piece praises Broad City’s Abbi Jacobson and Ilana Glazer as “the counterparts to the bromance that’s happening in current cannabis media” and credits them as “awkward, weird, pleasantly crude” and “aimless, hairbrained heroines.” Those adjectives describe traits that Black women rarely get to be onscreen and tend to actively avoid in real life. IRL, when Black women are “crude” there usually isn’t someone softening that attitude with a generous “pleasantly.” 

On TV, two of my favorite exceptions are “awkward” Issa Dee on Insecure, who does light up regularly with her on-and-off again bestie Molly, and “aimless” Van from Atlanta whose weed habit became a major episode plot point in season 1. There’s also the free-spirit artist Nola Darling from She’s Gotta Have it and activist healer Nova Bordelon from Queen Sugar who uses weed in her vodun practice. Zoe Kravitz as weed-smoking messy record-store owner Rob Brooks in High Fidelity (the reimagining of the beloved 2000 movie starring John Cusack) was a refreshing antidote to the Black-woman-with-her-shit-together-trope we see in TV often, but the show was unceremoniously cancelled after one season. In film, 2013’s long-forgotten indie dramedy Newlyweeds, which follows a Brooklyn-based Black couple who love marijuana as much as they love each other, is basically peerless. Overall, there are not a lot of characters who can combat what many Black women I spoke to say are the real-life stereotypes that plague those who choose to partake in the plant.

“I don’t talk about smoking weed a lot in my interviews,” writer-director Kelly Fyffe-Marshall says. She just had a short film premiere at Sundance and she’s one of the most in-demand Black creatives in Canada, where cannabis is legalized. “Even though it’s legal here, I don’t talk about it openly because I don’t know if it’s going to affect me in some [negative] way. I speak a lot about being Jamaican. All of a sudden, I’m put in this box. Straight away it’s like, ‘She’s this Black hippy girl who knows Bob Marley.’ And that’s my ministry,” Fyffe-Marshall says while on the same Zoom call as Henry, her producing partner. “These stoner movies depict laziness and taking a break. That’s not Black women,” Henry chimes in. “We’re hardworking. We’re industrious. We have to feed the five kids and the baby daddy who needs money in prison.” Or, as True put it, Black women leads “have to have this aura of perfection” like Scandal’s Olivia Pope. And smoking weed does not fit into that aesthetic. “Is weed not perfect? I disagree,” True says. But while she says it was “devastating” to have to play a character who was so anti-weed, she understood Mary Jane’s motivations because of the harmful images that are constantly perpetuated of Black women. 

These stoner movies depict laziness and taking a break. That’s not [supposed to be] Black women. We’re hardworking. We’re industrious.

SASHA LEIGH HENRY

“[Mary Jane] was a Black woman of the ‘90s. Black women at that time thought ‘if I just do everything right I’ll get ahead. I can’t afford to do anything wrong,’” she says. Mary Jane’s dad being in jail gave her a good reason not to smoke (True also confirmed the longstanding theory that Mary Jane’s incarcerated father is in fact Chong from Cheech and Chong). “As a Black person, even a silly character like that, if anyone was going to be arrested or thrown in jail for weed [possession], it’s going to be her. It’s going to be [Thurgood]. It’s not going to be their white counterparts and that’s still true today.” The reality of incarceration rates may be one of the reasons we don’t see more Black women stoner comedies, True says. Systemic anti-Black racism isn’t exactly rife for comedy. But if Seth Rogen and Co. get to ascend to the highest (pun intended) level of escapism where their actions rarely have consequences, why can’t we? 

“It’s still taboo for us, especially when you come from Baby Boomer parents who got it drilled into their brains that weed is a gateway drug,” says Miami-based Martine Pierre, president of Cannalution, a consulting firm that focuses on empowering Black and brown founders to break into the cannabis industry. “The lack of representation hasn’t allowed for that conversation to be open among family members. I am 31 years old and I am just now comfortable telling my mom I smoke weed. I probably would have done it earlier if I had good representation to show my mom like, ‘see, it’s not that bad!,’” she laughs. But Pierre doesn’t consider herself a  “stoner.” “When I smoke weed with my friends who are successful Black women, none of us relate to that word “stoner.” I consider myself a functional weed smoker,” she clarifies. 

For most of the Black women I spoke to, it wasn’t about “good” or “bad” representation or even the word “stoner,” it was more about wanting to see funny, relatable and raucous stories in movies and on TV — especially when weed is such a big part of their recreational activities and everyday lives. “I want to see the group of friends that get together and tries a drug for the weekend and all hell breaks loose, then they go back to their lives and they’re still intact,” Fyffe-Marshall says. “I think that’s why Girls Trip was such a hit. We don’t see Black women just get to wild out and flip a cop car and get away with it on TV.”

So, is lighting up in stoner movies the answer to burning down the tropes that have sidelined Black women characters for decades? Sure, seeing more Black women smoking weed onscreen would be nice, but it may not be that simple. In 2014, Greta Lee, the Korean-American actress who plays Homeless Heidi on High Maintenance wrote an essay for ELLE where she warned of the perils of the “stoner chick genre.” She doesn’t think emulating the shtick of the Rogen-era weed comedies is a good idea. “Let’s just skip over the girl version of the man-child narrative. Isn’t that just a lazy way to spin an already-chewed, male-centric experience in lieu of telling one of the limitless new stories there are to tell?”

She’s not wrong. There are countless stories of Black women who use weed for anxiety like True (she’s just written a book True Heart Intuitive Tarot and is now working on a screenplay starring a Black woman where “weed is a main character”), for creativity like Fyffe-Marshall and Henry (who are both also pitching projects where their leads smoke), or who have turned cannabis into a business like Brown and Pierre that need to be told. But before we get into the new strains of women stoners onscreen, I think there is one “man-child narrative” worth revisiting: a Half Baked sequel where Mary Jane Potman is a pothead who has finally found the value in her namesake, 20 years later.  

I pitch the idea to True. “Oh, I’d love to. If anyone needed a joint, it was that girl,” she says without hesitation. “Of course she’s a stoner now.” 

R29Unbothered’s High Impact is rewriting the rules of wellness, wealth, and weed for Black women with real and dynamic conversations that put US at the center.

Photo credits: Miramax/Photofest; Comedy Central/Photofest; ©MCA/Everett Collection; Columbia/Kobal/Shutterstock; Jordin Althaus/Showtime/Kobal/Shutterstock; Curtis Baker/Courtesy Everett Collection; Merie W. Wallace/©HBO/Everett Collection; Courtesy of Hulu; Miramax/Photofest; PictureLux/The Hollywood Archive/Alamy Stock Photo; 20th Century Fox/Kobal/Shutterstock.

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It’s easy to root for everybody Black at the NAACP Image Awards, a show specifically created to honor the achievements of Black artists and entertainers of color. In the middle of an awards season riddled with controversy (we’re looking at you, Hollywood Foreign Press Association) and some incremental change (the Oscars aren’t so white this year), the 52nd NAACP Image Awards served as a refreshing celebration of the best of the best in Black excellence, as it does every year. 

“It means the world to me. It’s the only validation that matters — Black people’s validation — so I really appreciate the NAACP for honoring us,” Issa Rae said while accepting the award for Outstanding Actress in a Comedy Series for Insecure during Saturday’s televised broadcast (other winners were announced throughout the week leading up to the show). This win comes after Rae and her beloved HBO series was completely shut out from nominations at the Golden Globes and snubbed in the comedy categories at the Emmys. In a virtual press conference after the NAACP awards, Rae spoke about what she hopes to see from other award shows in the future. “I just want the awards to feel like the NBA Finals, where there’s no question of who’s the best, there’s no question that the people who make it to the playoffs and the finals deserve to be there. Nobody got paid off, nobody is fluff, you know that you’re being honored because you created a great piece of work and I don’t think that’s too much to ask for,” she said over Zoom. “I just want the awards and the people behind the scenes to vote based on merit and I don’t think we’re there yet, but hopefully we’ll get there one day.” 

I just want the awards to feel like the NBA Finals, where there’s no question of who’s the best, there’s no question that the people who make it to the playoffs and the finals deserve to be there.

ISSA RAE

If the NAACP Awards were the NBA Finals, its undisputed MVP would be Viola Davis, who took home two awards during the show: Outstanding Actress in a Drama Series for How to Get Away with Murder and Outstanding Actress in a Motion Picture for Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Davis accepted her NAACP awards remotely with her husband, Julius Tennon, by her side. The pair also took on the press room together after the show. “Thank God for the NAACP Image Awards,” Davis told R29 Unbothered when asked about the show’s significance. “[Without it], we would still stay in the cloak of invisibility.” The importance of the visibility that this award show gives Black creators and entertainers cannot be overstated, but the fact that it is still an outlier in the industry speaks to Hollywood’s long history of systemic racism. 

“What I will say about Hollywood is the same thing I say about Black history in that actors and artists of color, we are artists,” Davis continued. “We belong in the same conversation as everyone else. Because a lot of times we are forgotten or not held in as much esteem as our white counterparts is why we need the NAACP image awards. It’s why we need the Essence luncheon.” Davis went on to say that the narrative that has undervalued creators of color in the past is changing, thanks to the work of Black artists. “We are now harnessing all of our talent, all of our ingenuity and we are literally demanding to be seen.” 

I don’t know if I would say I look forward to the day when there’s no NAACP Image Awards… but I look forward to the day when we no longer have to teach people how to see us.

viola davis

That demand is usually directed at white institutions like the aforementioned Oscars and Golden Globes  — add the Grammys to the list too — but when there is a show like the NAACP Image Awards that does meet the call for long-overdue Black recognition, the industry needs to treat it with the same reverence it does those other shows. We can’t blast the HFPA for refusing to acknowledge Black creators and then ignore the NAACP when it does. As Rae put it, this should be the “validation that matters.” During Saturday’s broadcast, winners like Rae, Davis and Bridgerton’s Regé-Jean Page, who won Outstanding Actor in a Drama Series, proved that the best and brightest in Hollywood period were rightly given their flowers. Page seemed sincerely shocked and adorably hyped to win as he gave a breathless acceptance speech about representation: “It is the highest honor, the highest honor, to represent us in the fullness of our humanity, of our beauty, of our joy, of our glamour, of our splendor, of our royalty, of our romance, of our love.”

We know that there are limits to representation and that awards shows won’t fix the deep-rooted issues in Hollywood, but for one night, the NAACP gave Black performers the joyful commemoration they deserve. Other big winners included DJ D-Nice for Entertainer Of the Year, Eddie Murphy was inducted into the NAACP Hall of Fame and the late Chadwick Boseman won Outstanding Actor In a Motion Picture. Boseman’s wife Taylor Simone Ledward accepted the award on his behalf and gave an emotional plea for the Black community to get screened for colon cancer, the disease that killed her husband and disproportionately affects Black people. Ledward’s speech was one of many poignant moments throughout the show ,which had presenters appearing from various locations in Los Angeles, New York, and Atlanta that are historically significant to Black culture. The Anthony Anderson-hosted broadcast (which was smoother and more tightly produced than most pandemic award shows) had depth, humor and was undoubtedly Black. 

Davis said she longs for the day “when our talent can be embraced as much as our white counterparts.” If that day comes, does that mean there will no longer be a need for the NAACP Image Awards? I think we’re always going to have to create spaces to celebrate ourselves, but I’ll let Davis have the final word: 

 “I don’t know if I would say I look forward to the day when there’s no NAACP Image Awards because, listen, we’re dope, but I look forward to the day when we no longer have to teach people how to see us.” 

Here’s a full list of the winners for the 52nd NAACP Image Awards live broadcast:

Outstanding Actor in a Drama Series

Regé-Jean Page – “Bridgerton”

Outstanding Actress in a Drama Series

Viola Davis – “How To Get Away With Murder”

Outstanding Actress in a Comedy Series

Issa Rae – “Insecure”

Outstanding Actress in a Motion Picture

Viola Davis – “Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom”

Outstanding Actor in a Motion Picture

Chadwick Boseman – “Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom”

Outstanding Motion Picture

“Bad Boys For Life”

Chairman’s Award

Rev. D. James Lawson

President’s Award

LeBron James

Hall of Fame Award

Eddie Murphy

Entertainer of the Year

D-Nice

Social Justice Impact

Stacey Abrams

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