Tyler Perry's Straw left us in tears, here's why

It took me three friends to just watch this movie, sleeping through it four times, and alas, here I am praising it, Tyler Perry has done us justice.

I still can't accept that all this was a delusional woman whose daughter died before the robbery long ago at the hospital corridor; all along, she was dead.

Some movies entertain. Some shock. A few inspire. And then some quietly walk into your life, dismantle your emotional barricades, and leave you sobbing in the dark, unable to explain why a single tear turned into a flood. Straw, Tyler Perry’s latest film, is one such haunting masterpiece.

In typical Perry fashion, Straw is a slow burn. At first glance, the plot feels deceptively simple—an ageing single mother, Lena Mae, working as a motel janitor in Georgia, grapples with a life of missed opportunities, invisible labour, and a son she no longer recognises. But behind the modest set design and Perry’s signature domestic rhythm, Straw builds into an emotional landslide that is at once deeply personal and devastatingly universal.

What broke us—collectively, cathartically—was not just Lena Mae’s story. It was how much of our pain, disappointment, and suppressed trauma it mirrored.

A story rooted in silence

Perry, often critiqued for his overuse of melodrama and patriarchal tropes, takes a daringly restrained turn in Straw. The film is an exploration of “the last straw”—that tiny, seemingly insignificant moment that shatters a life already cracking. Here, that moment is Lena Mae’s eviction from the motel staff quarters after decades of service. She is not fired violently. No screaming boss. No scandal. Just a letter slipped under the door. “We no longer require your services.” That’s it.

But this isn’t just about losing a job—it’s about being discarded. Forgotten. Overlooked.

We cried because Lena Mae’s quiet suffering is familiar. It’s the mother who sacrificed for her children, only to be called bitter. It’s the woman who stayed too long in thankless relationships. It’s the caregiver who gave everything and got nothing back.

The highlight that broke us

There is a pivotal scene midway through the film—one that deserves its place in cinematic history. Lena Mae sits in her rusted bathtub, fully clothed, arms wrapped around herself like armour. Her son, Reggie, now a polished motivational speaker with a large online following, knocks on the door, wanting to make amends.

“I don’t want apologies, Reggie,” she says. “I wanted someone to ask me how I was when I was breaking.”

The bathtub isn’t just a prop. It’s a metaphor for all the times women—Black women especially—soak their pain in silence, because the world never pauses long enough to ask if they’re drowning.

That line, delivered with a fragile finality by veteran actress Alfre Woodard (in what may be the performance of her career), is the heart of Straw. It reminds us that behind every strong woman is a reservoir of unshed tears.

The genius of the mundane

What Perry does with Straw is what he’s hinted at in previous works like Diary of a Mad Black Woman and For Colored Girls, but never quite mastered—he lets the story breathe. There’s no slapstick Madea to undercut the emotion, no vindictive villain to root against. Just life. Raw, tender, brutal life.

Every long silence. Every awkward dinner table conversation. Every unanswered call. These choices are not oversights; they are Perry’s rebellion against Hollywood’s rush. He dares us to sit in discomfort. And we do.

Why we wept

We wept because Straw forced us to grieve—not just Lena Mae, but all the forgotten matriarchs we know. It reminded us of our mothers, grandmothers, aunties, and neighbours—women who bore burdens in silence, who passed on strength without ever receiving comfort in return.

And perhaps most powerfully, it made us see ourselves. That we, too, are one unkind word away from our breaking point. That we, too, have straws piling up.

Final thoughts

Tyler Perry has given us many characters over the years, but Lena Mae might be his most honest. She is not triumphant. She doesn’t end the film rich, redeemed, or reborn. She simply survives. And in a world that constantly tries to erase women like her, survival is a form of rebellion.

Straw is not just a film. It is a collective reckoning.

And maybe that’s why, as the credits rolled, we didn’t just cry. We mourned.