By Adetayo Adetokun
Hollywood has always been a storyteller. But it doesn’t just tell any stories—it tells stories that shape how we see the world. It decides who gets to be a hero, who is worthy of love, who is feared, who is pitied, and who is ignored.
And when those stories rely on stereotypes, they don’t just fail to entertain—they actively harm the people they claim to represent.
Take Emilia Pérez, a film that has dominated awards season, winning the Palme d’Or at Cannes, multiple Oscars, and other prestigious accolades. On the surface, it appears groundbreaking—blending musical theater with crime drama and centering a transgender woman at its heart. Yet, the film has sparked significant backlash, particularly from those who recognize a troubling pattern in Hollywood’s storytelling choices.
Why does Hollywood continue linking marginalized identities to crime, suffering, or transformation? Why are trans women still being depicted primarily through the lens of transition rather than simply existing? And why are Latin American stories so often built around cartels and violence, reinforcing harmful narratives about an entire region?
Despite its awards and critical acclaim, Emilia Pérez is not revolutionary—it is yet another example of how Hollywood packages old stereotypes as progress. And Black communities know this pattern all too well.
Hollywood’s Cycle of Stereotypes
Hollywood doesn’t just tell stories; it tells the same stories over and over again. And for Black characters, those stories often fit into three broad categories:
The Struggle Narrative: Films about slavery, the Civil Rights Movement, or overcoming systemic racism (12 Years a Slave, Selma, Green Book).
The Crime & Poverty Cycle: Stories where Black characters are criminals, struggling single parents, or trapped in cycles of violence (Training Day, Boyz n the Hood, Precious).
The Sidekick Role: Where black characters exist to support a white protagonist, often providing wisdom, humor, or assistance but never their own depth (The Help, The Blind Side, Driving Miss Daisy).
These films aren’t necessarily bad. Many are well-made, well-acted, and even emotionally powerful. But the issue is that they are overrepresented. Black stories are disproportionately tied to suffering, struggle, or criminality, while everyday Black experiences—love, ambition, adventure, fantasy, joy—are rarely given the same platform.
And that repetition shapes how people see blackness in the real world.
The Marginalization of Black Characters in Prestige TV
This problem extends beyond film. Consider Desperate Housewives, one of the most iconic TV series of the early 2000s. The show was praised for its sharp writing and dramatic twists, yet its treatment of black characters was a glaring example of how Hollywood sidelines non-white stories.
When Alfre Woodard was cast as Betty Applewhite, the first black housewife on Wisteria Lane, expectations were high. But instead of integrating her into the main cast like the other women, the writers gave her a disconnected, isolated storyline. She was positioned as an outsider with a dark secret, her presence on the show revolving around hiding her mentally ill son. While the white housewives engaged in affairs, scandals, and humor-filled chaos, Betty’s story was drenched in struggle and mystery, reinforcing the idea that black characters exist adjacent to the main action, never truly a part of it.
This wasn’t an isolated issue. For years, Black characters in prestige TV were either troubled (think Stringer Bell in The Wire) or absent (consider the overwhelmingly white cast of Friends and Sex and the City).
Even today, when Black characters are given more space in storytelling, they often still exist through the lens of trauma. Euphoria’s Rue Bennett (Zendaya) is a brilliant but deeply troubled drug addict. Queen & Slim turns a modern Black love story into a tragic on-the-run crime drama. Even Lovecraft Country, a show that dared to push the boundaries of genre storytelling, was ultimately saturated in pain and violence.
Yes, black pain is real. Racism is real. But why does Hollywood insist that these are the only stories worth telling?
The Power of Narrative: What’s at Stake?
Media doesn’t just reflect society—it actively shapes it. When people see the same stereotypes play out over and over again, those images become internalized. Policymakers, employers, teachers, and even law enforcement officers are influenced by the stories Hollywood tells.
If blackness is consistently linked to struggle, crime, or sidekick status, it feeds into real-world biases:
Employers see black candidates as less professional.
Police officers see black men as more dangerous.
Schools discipline Black students more harshly.
Doctors take Black patients’ pain less seriously.
This isn’t hypothetical—it is backed by research. Studies show that media stereotypes contribute to real-world discrimination, affecting everything from hiring practices to courtroom decisions.
And this isn’t just about Black communities. The same patterns harm Latinx, Indigenous, Asian, and LGBTQ+ communities as well. The fact that Emilia Pérez—one of the few high-profile films centering a trans woman—immediately ties her to crime is not just storytelling. It is a reflection of how Hollywood still sees marginalized identities: as something to be “explained,” “redeemed,” or “othered,” rather than as fully realized people.
Breaking the Cycle: The Stories We Need
So, what does real progress look like? It looks like stories that move beyond struggle. Stories that show Black and Latinx characters as romantic leads, intellectuals, dreamers, sci-fi heroes, and adventurers.
We need more films like:
Moonlight, which explored Black masculinity and queerness with tenderness rather than trauma.
The Woman King, which centered Black female warriors in a way that felt triumphant rather than tragic.
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, which gave us Miles Morales—a Black Latino superhero who wasn’t defined by struggle but by adventure and heart.
The photograph, which showed love as the simplicity of two people navigating their desire for each other in light of their differences as individuals.
We need more TV, like:
Abbott Elementary, which portrays Black educators with humor, warmth, and humanity.
Insecure, which lets Black women be messy, ambitious, and joyful without needing a white lens.
Atlanta, which experimented with genre and surrealism to explore Black identity in ways that felt fresh and subversive.
The future of film and television can be different. But only if we demand it.
The Responsibility of Hollywood
For too long, Hollywood has dictated who gets to be the hero, who is worth centering, and what kinds of stories matter. Emilia Pérez may have won the biggest awards in the industry, but accolades do not erase harmful stereotypes. This film, like so many before it, is being celebrated as progress while reinforcing the same tired narratives.
The industry is still playing it safe—still centering marginalized communities in crime stories, still reducing them to their struggles, still treating diversity as a theme rather than a natural part of storytelling.
But audiences are pushing back. Films should represent of all shades of us. The success of films like Everything Everywhere All at Once and Black Panther proves that diversity isn’t a risk—it is a necessity.
Now, it is time for Hollywood to catch up. It is time for filmmakers to stop treating marginalized communities as afterthoughts or plot devices. It is time to tell stories that reflect real human complexity—not just the struggles but the joys, the love, the ambition, and the magic.
Because the stories shape the world we live in. And if Hollywood won’t change that narrative, then we must.
On Emilia Pérez, Hollywood Stereotypes, and the Stories That Shape Us
By Adetayo Adetokun
Hollywood has always been a storyteller. But it doesn’t just tell any stories—it tells stories that shape how we see the world. It decides who gets to be a hero, who is worthy of love, who is feared, who is pitied, and who is ignored.
And when those stories rely on stereotypes, they don’t just fail to entertain—they actively harm the people they claim to represent.
Take Emilia Pérez, a film that has dominated awards season, winning the Palme d’Or at Cannes, multiple Oscars, and other prestigious accolades. On the surface, it appears groundbreaking—blending musical theater with crime drama and centering a transgender woman at its heart. Yet, the film has sparked significant backlash, particularly from those who recognize a troubling pattern in Hollywood’s storytelling choices.
Why does Hollywood continue linking marginalized identities to crime, suffering, or transformation? Why are trans women still being depicted primarily through the lens of transition rather than simply existing? And why are Latin American stories so often built around cartels and violence, reinforcing harmful narratives about an entire region?
Despite its awards and critical acclaim, Emilia Pérez is not revolutionary—it is yet another example of how Hollywood packages old stereotypes as progress. And Black communities know this pattern all too well.
Hollywood’s Cycle of Stereotypes
Hollywood doesn’t just tell stories; it tells the same stories over and over again. And for Black characters, those stories often fit into three broad categories:
The Struggle Narrative: Films about slavery, the Civil Rights Movement, or overcoming systemic racism (12 Years a Slave, Selma, Green Book).
The Crime & Poverty Cycle: Stories where Black characters are criminals, struggling single parents, or trapped in cycles of violence (Training Day, Boyz n the Hood, Precious).
The Sidekick Role: Where black characters exist to support a white protagonist, often providing wisdom, humor, or assistance but never their own depth (The Help, The Blind Side, Driving Miss Daisy).
These films aren’t necessarily bad. Many are well-made, well-acted, and even emotionally powerful. But the issue is that they are overrepresented. Black stories are disproportionately tied to suffering, struggle, or criminality, while everyday Black experiences—love, ambition, adventure, fantasy, joy—are rarely given the same platform.
And that repetition shapes how people see blackness in the real world.
The Marginalization of Black Characters in Prestige TV
This problem extends beyond film. Consider Desperate Housewives, one of the most iconic TV series of the early 2000s. The show was praised for its sharp writing and dramatic twists, yet its treatment of black characters was a glaring example of how Hollywood sidelines non-white stories.
When Alfre Woodard was cast as Betty Applewhite, the first black housewife on Wisteria Lane, expectations were high. But instead of integrating her into the main cast like the other women, the writers gave her a disconnected, isolated storyline. She was positioned as an outsider with a dark secret, her presence on the show revolving around hiding her mentally ill son. While the white housewives engaged in affairs, scandals, and humor-filled chaos, Betty’s story was drenched in struggle and mystery, reinforcing the idea that black characters exist adjacent to the main action, never truly a part of it.
This wasn’t an isolated issue. For years, Black characters in prestige TV were either troubled (think Stringer Bell in The Wire) or absent (consider the overwhelmingly white cast of Friends and Sex and the City).
Even today, when Black characters are given more space in storytelling, they often still exist through the lens of trauma. Euphoria’s Rue Bennett (Zendaya) is a brilliant but deeply troubled drug addict. Queen & Slim turns a modern Black love story into a tragic on-the-run crime drama. Even Lovecraft Country, a show that dared to push the boundaries of genre storytelling, was ultimately saturated in pain and violence.
Yes, black pain is real. Racism is real. But why does Hollywood insist that these are the only stories worth telling?
The Power of Narrative: What’s at Stake?
Media doesn’t just reflect society—it actively shapes it. When people see the same stereotypes play out over and over again, those images become internalized. Policymakers, employers, teachers, and even law enforcement officers are influenced by the stories Hollywood tells.
If blackness is consistently linked to struggle, crime, or sidekick status, it feeds into real-world biases:
Employers see black candidates as less professional.
Police officers see black men as more dangerous.
Schools discipline Black students more harshly.
Doctors take Black patients’ pain less seriously.
This isn’t hypothetical—it is backed by research. Studies show that media stereotypes contribute to real-world discrimination, affecting everything from hiring practices to courtroom decisions.
And this isn’t just about Black communities. The same patterns harm Latinx, Indigenous, Asian, and LGBTQ+ communities as well. The fact that Emilia Pérez—one of the few high-profile films centering a trans woman—immediately ties her to crime is not just storytelling. It is a reflection of how Hollywood still sees marginalized identities: as something to be “explained,” “redeemed,” or “othered,” rather than as fully realized people.
Breaking the Cycle: The Stories We Need
So, what does real progress look like? It looks like stories that move beyond struggle. Stories that show Black and Latinx characters as romantic leads, intellectuals, dreamers, sci-fi heroes, and adventurers.
We need more films like:
Moonlight, which explored Black masculinity and queerness with tenderness rather than trauma.
The Woman King, which centered Black female warriors in a way that felt triumphant rather than tragic.
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, which gave us Miles Morales—a Black Latino superhero who wasn’t defined by struggle but by adventure and heart.
The photograph, which showed love as the simplicity of two people navigating their desire for each other in light of their differences as individuals.
We need more TV, like:
Abbott Elementary, which portrays Black educators with humor, warmth, and humanity.
Insecure, which lets Black women be messy, ambitious, and joyful without needing a white lens.
Atlanta, which experimented with genre and surrealism to explore Black identity in ways that felt fresh and subversive.
The future of film and television can be different. But only if we demand it.
The Responsibility of Hollywood
For too long, Hollywood has dictated who gets to be the hero, who is worth centering, and what kinds of stories matter. Emilia Pérez may have won the biggest awards in the industry, but accolades do not erase harmful stereotypes. This film, like so many before it, is being celebrated as progress while reinforcing the same tired narratives.
The industry is still playing it safe—still centering marginalized communities in crime stories, still reducing them to their struggles, still treating diversity as a theme rather than a natural part of storytelling.
But audiences are pushing back. Films should represent of all shades of us. The success of films like Everything Everywhere All at Once and Black Panther proves that diversity isn’t a risk—it is a necessity.
Now, it is time for Hollywood to catch up. It is time for filmmakers to stop treating marginalized communities as afterthoughts or plot devices. It is time to tell stories that reflect real human complexity—not just the struggles but the joys, the love, the ambition, and the magic.
Because the stories shape the world we live in. And if Hollywood won’t change that narrative, then we must.
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