The “salt-of-the-earth” vigilante is a cornerstone of American cinema. From Michael Douglas’s D-Fens in Falling Down, methodically dismantling a society that has discarded him, to Samuel L. Jackson’s principled desperation in The Negotiator, and Denzel Washington’s heart-wrenching ultimatum in John Q, these films resonate deeply. They tap into a primal fear: that the systems designed to support us—healthcare, justice, employment—could one day turn against us, forcing ordinary people into extraordinary, and often illegal, circumstances. We watch, captivated, as a blue-collar hero takes the law into their own hands against an oppressive force. Sometimes they are righteous, other times tragically misguided, but in every case, the audience is strapped in for a compelling, thought-provoking ride.
Now, here we are in 2025, and the prolific Tyler Perry has stepped into this hallowed arena. He has not only produced but also written and directed a film that aims to join this pantheon of everyman rebellion. The film is Straw, a Netflix exclusive, and it positions itself as a modern successor to these classics. The only problem? It’s a catastrophic, bewildering, and profoundly terrible misfire.
What follows is an in-depth exploration of a film that takes a powerful premise and systematically dismantles it with cartoonish characters, logic-defying plot holes, and a bafflingly unsympathetic protagonist. If Netflix has become synonymous with a certain brand of disposable content, Straw feels like its unfortunate magnum opus. So, join me as I break down every frustrating, head-scratching moment of this movie. There will be spoilers, but trust me, I am saving you two hours of your life. Let’s begin.
A Promising Premise Buried Under an Avalanche of Absurdity
Before we dive into the cinematic train wreck, it’s only fair to acknowledge the foundation. On paper, the concept behind Straw isn’t just solid; it’s timely and important. The story centers on the oppressive nature of modern life, specifically for a single mother trying to navigate a world seemingly designed to ensure her failure. It touches on the impossibility of getting ahead when you start from a disadvantaged position, where every dollar is already allocated to essentials that you still can’t afford.
This is the plight of our protagonist, Janiah (played by the typically phenomenal Taraji P. Henson). She is raising a daughter with severe medical complications—the film vaguely mentions constant seizures—and the medication is cripplingly expensive. Janiah’s series of dead-end, low-wage jobs can’t cover the medicine, the rent on their dilapidated apartment, or even the $40 needed for her daughter’s monthly school lunch.
This is a story that should resonate. It’s the story of millions of Americans living on a razor’s edge, one missed paycheck or medical emergency away from total collapse. Perry sets the stage for a powerful social commentary, a raw look at the failures of the system. Unfortunately, this promising setup is merely the launching pad for a narrative so extreme, so unbelievably over-the-top, that any semblance of truth or believability is immediately incinerated.
Meet Janiah: An Exercise in Unsympathetic Protagonism
A film like this lives or dies on the audience’s connection to its lead. We need to root for them, even as they make terrible decisions. We rooted for Walter White, for D-Fens, for John Q. With Janiah, Perry makes this an impossible task. Taraji P. Henson, an actress of immense talent, is directed to play Janiah not as a woman cracking under pressure, but as a gratingly unhinged individual from the very first frame. She is supposed to be our relatable, likable, sympathetic hero, but she comes across as, to put it bluntly, certifiably insane long before the inciting incident.
I understand she is losing her mind, but her performance is a constant barrage of high-pitched hysterics and baffling choices. Within forty minutes, my sympathy had evaporated, replaced by an overwhelming desire for her to simply be quiet. The film dares you to stick with her, and it’s a dare most viewers will lose.
The film opens on Janiah in her disheveled apartment, the broken ceiling fan a lazy metaphor for her broken life. She can’t afford hot water for her daughter’s bath, yet her first act of the day is to give a few precious dollars to a homeless man outside, played by a nearly unrecognizable Sinbad. (A fun fact: I had to check IMDb to confirm it was him, and his performance is genuinely transformative for the few seconds he’s on screen). While a noble gesture, the immediate thought is: perhaps that money could have gone to the furious landlord, who is threatening to throw Janiah’s belongings onto the lawn if the rent isn’t paid by 10:30 AM. This one small, illogical moment is a harbinger of the character’s nonsensical decision-making to come.
A World of Cardboard Villains
If our protagonist is a vortex of frustrating chaos, the world she inhabits is a theme park of cartoon villainy. Every single person Janiah interacts with is not just unsympathetic; they are monstrous caricatures of evil, seemingly written by someone who has only observed human behavior through a distorted, hyper-cynical lens.
Her boss at the “Super Center” (a rinky-dink convenience store) is a prime example. When Janiah is a few minutes late, he doesn’t just reprimand her; he launches into a tirade of comically cruel insults: “Where the hell were you? You’re garbage, I hate you, you’re stupid and your face is dumb! I don’t care about your sick kid, boohoo!” It’s not just unrealistic; it’s laughably bad writing. Moments later, when a customer throws a bottle at Janiah, which she dodges, the boss is instantly there, not to check on his employee, but to scream, “Clean this shit up! You’re just an absolute dirtbag!”
This level of overt villainy extends to every corner of the film. The system isn’t just flawed; it’s a sentient, malevolent entity populated by the worst people imaginable. When Janiah is forced to leave work to deal with an issue at her daughter’s school, she is confronted by child protective services. Because her daughter has been arriving at school malnourished and unbathed (due to their poverty), they are taking her away on the spot. This is the last time we ever see the child in the movie, a baffling choice that removes the central emotional stake less than twenty minutes in.
The parade of awfulness continues with a road rage incident. After swerving in traffic, Janiah is pursued by an unhinged man who begins ramming her car repeatedly. “I’m going to make you pay for cutting me off!” he screams, T-boning her vehicle until it spins out and dies. As it turns out, this psychopath and his equally aggressive female partner are—you guessed it—police officers. The film leans so heavily into the “all cops are bad” trope that it becomes parody. While police misconduct is a serious and real issue, the presentation here is so insanely over-the-top, devoid of any nuance, that it provokes laughter instead of outrage. It feels less like a commentary and more like a checklist of grievances executed with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
The Bank Heist: Where Logic Goes to Die
After this gauntlet of misery—her child taken, her car destroyed, her job lost (after she returns two hours late and is, predictably, fired), and her possessions dumped on the curb—Janiah witnesses a robbery at her former workplace. In a moment of supposed empowerment, she disarms one of the robbers, grabs his gun, and kills him. She then turns to her screaming boss, who is on the phone with 911, gleefully telling the operator that Janiah orchestrated the whole thing.
“You will never see your child again,” he sneers. “You’re going to jail. Goodbye.”
In response, Janiah shoots him in cold blood. She calmly wipes the blood from her final paycheck, and heads to the bank to cash it, seemingly unconcerned by the two fresh corpses in her wake.
This is where Straw transitions from a bleak drama into a full-blown farce. At the bank, the teller asks for ID. Janiah, who has none, slams the gun on the counter with a flourish, demanding her money. The terrified teller hits the silent alarm, and the hostage situation begins.
What follows is a series of events so monumentally stupid it defies description. The head of the bank, played by Sherri Shepherd, attempts to de-escalate, but soon, every hostage in the bank inexplicably begins to sympathize with Janiah. They listen to her story and collectively decide, “You know what? She’s right. We are Team Janiah!” They start chanting her name, becoming her biggest cheerleaders.
The absurdity is then amplified by a magical cell phone. One of the bank tellers covertly starts recording the events on her phone. This isn’t just any recording. According to a “4K” icon in the corner of the screen, it’s a high-resolution video that not only records for multiple hours without running out of battery or storage (an impossibility for 4K video) but also, at some point, magically begins broadcasting live to the entire world. There is no scene where the teller activates a livestream on Twitch or YouTube; the film simply decides that the video is now global.
We are then treated to a montage of people across the country—barbers in a barbershop, a baker in her kitchen, a teacher in a classroom—glued to their screens, moved to their very core by Janiah’s plight. The teacher proudly touches her heart, apparently finding a new form of spiritual and possibly physical climax in the broadcast. It’s one of the most unintentionally hilarious sequences in recent film history.
Meanwhile, the police operation outside is just as nonsensical. The lead detective, K. Raymond, is presented as a brilliant investigator who looks more like a Barbie doll on her way to a gala than a cop at a crisis scene, with perfect hair and full lip gloss. Her “brilliant insight”? She deduces that Janiah isn’t a criminal mastermind but rather a desperate woman who snapped. This is treated as a groundbreaking revelation, despite it being the most obvious conclusion possible. Her theory doesn’t change the strategy or the outcome; it just serves to make her look smart in a room full of incompetent male officers.
The ‘Gotcha’ Ending and Its Hollow Impact
The climax of the standoff arrives when Janiah gets a call from her mother: her daughter, the one we haven’t seen for an hour, has died off-screen from a seizure. The medication she was fighting for was all for naught. Devastated, Janiah looks up at the ceiling and screams “No!” in a shot so clichéd it could be from X-Men Origins: Wolverine. At that moment, SWAT crashes through the ceiling and riddles her with bullets. J-Town is dead. Her daughter is dead. It was all for nothing. Roll credits on this bleak, nihilistic tragedy.
Except… that’s not what happens.
In a move of stunning creative cowardice, the film reveals that her death was just a scenario playing out in her head. Why? To what end? There is no thematic or narrative reason for this cheap “gotcha” moment. Instead, Janiah calmly walks out of the bank and surrenders. She is gently escorted to a police car, not by a hostile force, but through a massive crowd of supporters who have gathered, holding “Free Janiah” signs. They cheer for her as if she’s a conquering hero. She gets in the car, a small smile on her face, and the credits mercifully, finally roll.
The ending is a complete betrayal of everything the film, however poorly, was trying to build. It offers no resolution, no consequence, and no satisfying conclusion. Will she be freed? Will she rot in prison? The film doesn’t care, leaving the door obnoxiously open for a sequel we can only pray never gets made.
Conclusion: A Straw Man Argument for a Movie
To reiterate, Straw had a decent, even a powerful, premise. It was an opportunity to tell a modern story about the crushing weight of a system that fails its most vulnerable citizens. But that premise was handled in the most miserable way possible. Tyler Perry’s script populates this world with ridiculous characters, guides them through implausible situations, and caps it all off with a final act that is both nonsensical and emotionally hollow.
The acting, even from a powerhouse like Taraji P. Henson, is dragged down by direction that favors obnoxious, over-the-top melodrama over nuanced human emotion. It’s difficult to sympathize with her journey in the slightest when she is presented as a shrieking caricature from start to finish.
If you’re looking for a film about an ordinary person pushed to the brink, please, do yourself a favor and revisit the classics. Watch Falling Down for its simmering rage and sharp satire. Watch The Negotiator for its tactical brilliance and moral complexity. Watch John Q for its raw, emotional power. These are all great movies for different reasons, and they all treat their audience and their subject matter with the respect that Straw so blatantly lacks. This film isn’t just the final straw; it’s a whole bale of hay, set ablaze in a spectacular, unforgettable disaster.