June 18, 2025
When Tyler Perry and Taraji P. Henson join forces, the result is never less than magic—and Straw, their latest offering now streaming on Netflix, is no exception. But this isn’t just another thriller. For me, it became something intensely personal. As a woman who understands the quiet storms many single mothers endure, this film didn’t just speak—it shouted, cried, and ultimately, healed.
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With Straw I was expecting a good watch. I wasn’t prepared for the emotional reckoning it would become. The film follows Janiyah Wilkinson (Taraji P. Henson), a single mother pulled under by a tide of debt, injustice and desperation. Her pain felt so visceral I could almost reach out and touch it. Perry’s script doesn’t sugar-coat the weight women carry alone—it lays it bare.
The final Straw for Jayniah (Taraji p. Henson) - Credit Netflix
There were moments that hit far too close to home. The isolation. The quiet sobs no one hears. The overwhelming fear of failing your children while the world turns a blind eye. I saw myself in Janiyah more times than I care to admit—and when she snapped, I cried with her.
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As for Taraji P. Henson—what can I say that hasn’t already been said? She devours this role. Her portrayal of Janiyah is not just acting; it’s alchemy. She breaks open the emotional undercurrents of being a single mother, of trying to stay afloat when the system is designed to drown you. Her pain, her fear, her fury—they shook me. This wasn’t a character. It was a mirror.
Amongst the emotion and chaos, one performance emerged as the film’s steady heart—Teyana Taylor as Detective Kay Raymond. I knew she could dance, sing, and own a stage, but this? This was a revelation. She exudes calm intelligence, vulnerability and quiet power.
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When Janiyah barricades herself in the bank, it’s Kay who steps forward—not with bravado, but empathy. There’s a moment where she pleads not just with words, but with her eyes. It reminded me of how Black women are so often expected to be both strong and soft—Taylor captured that balance exquisitely.
Director Tyler Perry later revealed he gave Taylor very little direction—she simply felt her way through the role. It shows. She didn’t just play Kay. She embodied her. Teyana’s performance is layered, instinctive and deeply human. She didn’t need sirens or speeches to command attention—she just was, and that was more than enough.
One of the most vital threads in Straw is its unflinching portrayal of mental health. So many mothers suffer silently—afraid, ashamed, or too exhausted to ask for help. This film says the quiet part out loud. It doesn't just depict a breakdown; it demands that we understand it.
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I wept not just for Janiyah, but for every woman who's ever stared at the ceiling wondering how much more she can take. This film reminded me and I hope it reminds many that we deserve to be seen, heard, and supported.
The ending? Let’s just say I’m still recovering. The twist is gutting, brilliant, and so perfectly placed that it shifts everything you thought you knew. It’s the kind of moment that stays with you, like a bruise that aches but reminds you you’ve survived.
Straw is necessary. It’s unrelenting, emotional, and timely. Perry’s signature dramatic flair is there, but it’s elevated by grounded storytelling and three standout performances.
Teyana Taylor astounds. Sherri Shepherd uplifts. Taraji P. Henson devastates. And me? I’m still wiping away the tears.
If you’ve ever felt invisible, exhausted or simply done, Straw might be the film that reminds you—you are not alone.
