Lights, Camera, Oppression:

Hollywood’s Racial Foundations and the struggle and triumph of black cinema

Black Hollywood vs. Hollywood

I love movies. I haven’t seen them all, but I do have a deep love for cinematography. My favorite quote—“A single picture is worth a thousand words.” was credited to one of the most influential American newspaper editors of the early 20th century. That being said made me wonder what I could say with a whole movie? Later I learned, interestingly enough Arthur Brisbane who is also known for yellow journalism, a type of news delivery that plays on people's emotions or over exaggerates the headlines, just to get you to buy a paper. What they call yellow journalism we call click bait, which is fine for amateur YouTube videos but not respected journalism, which I learned after the fact. —made me wonder: That idea of talking to an audience through a movie was a wonderment to me. Growing up I watched what I could when I could, and very quickly I noticed not just the places that it could take you visually but also that the film industry has two categories: there’s Black Hollywood, and then there’s Hollywood. That divide isn’t new—it’s foundational.

Back in 1946, Paul Robeson—a world-renowned actor, singer, scholar, and civil rights activist—said it clearly: “There is a Hollywood for them, and a struggle for us. We build our own stages, because theirs were never meant for our truth” A brilliant man, football player, opera singer, at one point a lawyer and an actor. Where he finally had to go overseas just to feel like a human being is heartbreaking. and my four fathers also died in this country, fought in the same wars and respectfully held their hands over their heart and pledge allegiance ….to what? So that you can be denied basic rights and Blanton disregard and disrespect to put it lightly.

(Robeson, qtd. in Horne, 1998). He wasn’t just talking about access—he was talking about authorship. In the early 20th century, white Hollywood directors were working for major studios like Warner Brothers and MGM—cast Black actors in roles that reinforced harmful stereotypes. Step-in Fetchit and Louise Beavers were two of the most visible Black actors in early Hollywood, yet both were confined to roles that upheld stereotypes, caricatures of black people. Fetchit, often cast as the lazy, slow-witted sub-servant buffoon, became the first Black actor to earn a million dollars, these characters he played helped drive this propaganda of diminishing the value and power of black Americans —All while he was negotiating contracts asking for credits and royalties and behind the scenes creating wealth in exchange for the self respect of the black people, at the cost of playing characters that comforted white audiences (Bogle, 2001). This was very interesting to me I had heard one of my Uncles say “Thats a Step-n-fecth type of n***@” didn't know what he meant but now I do. He was the David Chappelle of our time well before his “exodus” to South Africa. Beavers, known for her role in Imitation of Life (1934), brought emotional depth to the “mammy” archetype, yet her characters were consistently written to serve rather than lead, reflecting a system that valued Black presence but denied Black power wearing the iconic maid uniform that came to symbolize the “mammy” archetype in early Hollywood. Despite the limitations of the role, Beavers infused her character with emotional depth and dignity, challenging the boundaries of stereotype. (Guerrero, 1993).

Louise Beavers as Delilah Johnson in Imitation of Life (1934), Image source: Universal Pictures, 1934. Cited in Guerrero, Ed. Framing Blackness: The African American Image in Film. Temple University Press, 1993.

Figure 1. Stepin Fetchit (Lincoln Perry) in character, Image source: Getty Images. Cited in Bogle, Donald. Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, and Bucks: An Interpretive History of Blacks in American Films. Continuum, 2001.

Figure 2. Lincoln Perry off-screen, dressed sharply and standing beside his luxury car. Image source: Getty Images. Cited in Cripps, Thomas. Slow Fade to Black: The Negro in American Film, 1900–1942. Oxford University Press, 1977; Bogle, Donald. Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, and Bucks. Continuum, 2001.

In character, performing the exaggerated gestures and slouched posture that defined his “laziest man in the world” persona. Though steeped in stereotype, Perry’s deliberate embodiment of this role reflected the limited options available to Black actors in early Hollywood. As the first Black actor to receive screen credit and negotiate royalties, Perry was a savvy businessman who maintained control over his brand—subverting the very system that confined him on screen.

In contrast, Richard D. Maurice and Spencer Williams were two pioneering Black directors who helped shape the Race Film era with bold, independent storytelling. Maurice’s Eleven P.M. (1928), a surreal and socially conscious drama, portrayed a Black newspaperman fighting exploitation and injustice—using experimental visuals to challenge cinematic norms and elevate Black heroism. Over a decade later, Williams directed The Blood of Jesus (1941), a religious allegory that blended spiritual themes with everyday Black life, becoming one of the most widely screened Race Films in Black churches. Both filmmakers operated outside the Hollywood system, crafting narratives that centered Black dignity, moral complexity, and cultural authenticity at a time when mainstream cinema refused to do so.

Figure 1. Richard D. Maurice , pioneering director of Eleven P.M. (1928),

Figure 2. Spencer Williams, director of The Blood of Jesus (1941).

These films were distributed outside the studio system and gave black cinematographers control over their own stories. That’s the real difference: one side had power, the other had purpose. Not all Black directors broke the mold. Tyler Perry and John Singleton, two influential Black directors, have faced sharp criticism for reinforcing stereotypes in their films. Tyler Perry’s Diary of a Mad Black Woman (2005) has been called out for perpetuating the “angry Black woman” trope, with cultural critic Jamilah Lemieux stating that his work is “filled with old stereotypes of buffoonish, emasculated Black men and crass, sassy Black women” (Lemieux).

Figure 1 (Left). Tyler Perry’s character Madea, holding a chainsaw with a stunned expression, embodies the trope of the emasculated Black male—stripped of authority, dignity, and agency. His posture and props exaggerate femininity, reinforcing a recurring theme in Tyler Perry’s narratives where Black men are portrayed as emotionally or physically impotent. Image source: Screenshot from Diary of a Mad Black Woman, YouTube, 0:17 mark. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFi0lV3fMRU.

Figure 2 (Right). The female lead, moments after slapping Perry’s character, exemplifies the “angry Black woman” stereotype—depicted as vindictive and emotionally volatile. Her immediate turn to physical retaliation reflects a narrative pattern where Black women are shown as aggressive rather than complex.

Image source: Screenshot from Diary of a Mad Black Woman, YouTube Shorts, 0:02 mark. https://www.youtube.com/shorts/_m6qf1J0LBA

Similarly, Singleton’s Baby Boy (2001) has been critiqued for glamorizing dysfunction, with Stanley Crouch arguing that the film “reduces Black masculinity to sexual conquest, violence, and emotional immaturity” (Crouch).

Figure 3. Taraji P. Henson as Yvette, holding her son and confronting Jody (played by Tyrese Gibson) was punched in the face. Her declaration—“I’m done”—marks a moment of emotional rupture and maternal resolve. This scene exemplifies the cycle of dysfunction and emotional volatility that critics argue glamorizes toxic masculinity and trauma in Black relationships. Image source: Screenshot from Baby Boy, directed by John Singleton, 2001. YouTube, 2:22 mark. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ht90RgvjvTc Cited in Crouch, Stanley. “The Trouble with Singleton.” Salon, 2001; Haggins, Bambi. Laughing Mad: The Black Comic Persona in Post-Soul America. Rutgers University Press, 2007.

These unapologetic critiques highlight how even well-intentioned Black filmmakers can fall into the trap of reproducing limiting narratives when they rely on familiar tropes without deeper interrogation.As scholar Bambi Haggins puts it, “Black filmmakers are not immune to the pressures of the marketplace or the legacy of representation. Sometimes, they reproduce the very images they claim to resist” (Haggins).

Pulling the Veil and Meeting the Wizard

Before we talk about how Hollywood became the machine, we need to talk about how it started. The early 1900s weren’t just the birth of cinema—they were the birth of cinematic power. The film wasn’t neutral. It was political from the beginning. The people who controlled the cameras controlled the narrative, and the first major studios—Universal, Paramount, Warner Brothers—weren’t just making entertainment. They were building a visual language that told America who mattered, who didn’t, and who would never be seen unless it was through a lens of fear, fantasy, or servitude (Guerrero; Diawara).

In 1915, The Birth of a Nation hit the big screen. It was a revolution. It was historical. Audiences were watching technology advance right before their eyes. Griffith came through with editing tricks that had folks shook: cutting between scenes like a thriller, zooming in on faces for drama, fading out like a stage curtain, and battle scenes that looked like early Hollywood trying to do Marvel before Marvel even existed. Creating greenscreen effects before there was even the conception of green screen. This wasn’t some dusty reel—it had a live orchestra, fancy printed programs, and a whole intermission like you were at the Met Gala of movies. Griffith didn’t invent film, but he cracked the code. He laid down the blueprint—the visual language and storytelling rhythm that Hollywood’s been remixing ever since. That was the moment cinema stopped being a flicker in the dark and started acting like it ran the culture.

Propaganda in Motion: The Wizard

As advanced as The Birth of a Nation was, it delivered a devastating cultural setback. It did exactly what it was designed to do. D.W. Griffith—director and co-producer—and Harry Aitken—producer—weren’t just filmmakers. They were white supremacists with capital, access, and a clear agenda. Griffith’s father was a Confederate colonel, and Griffith himself romanticized the antebellum South, portraying it as noble and victimized. Aitken, through the Epoch Producing Company, helped bankroll the film knowing it would glorify the Ku Klux Klan and rewrite Reconstruction as a white nationalist fantasy (Stokes; Bogle).

Original theatrical poster for D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation (1915), a landmark in cinematic technique and a flashpoint of racial controversy. The film showed blacks as evil and KKK as true American saviors and protectors as vigilantes. Source:

“The Birth of a Nation Poster.” Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Birth_of_a_Nation_poster_2.jpg.

The film’s narrative wasn’t accidental—it was ideological. It framed Black liberation as chaos and white terrorism as salvation. The KKK had been largely dormant since the late 1800s, but The Birth of a Nation rebranded them as heroic saviors of white civilization. It was screened at the White House, where President Woodrow Wilson reportedly said it was “like writing history with lightning” (Stokes).

By 1920, KKk membership had exploded to over 4 million nationwide (Guerrero). Griffith followed it up with Intolerance (1916), a technically ambitious film meant to redeem his image—but it

didn’t undo the cultural damage. As scholar Melvyn Stokes notes, “Griffith’s film did not merely reflect racism—it actively shaped it” (Stokes).

The cultural fallout from films like The Birth of a Nation—which weaponized narrative to legitimize white supremacy—was part of a larger crisis of conscience in Hollywood. As

the industry’s influence grew, so did public scrutiny, culminating in a wave of scandals that intensified calls for reform. The moral panic of the 1920s didn’t just target individual actors—it questioned the ethical foundation of cinema itself.

Figure 1. William Desmond Taylor, a respected silent film director, and Margaret Gibson (also known as Patricia Palmer), Source: Wikimedia Commons – The Riders of Petersham (1914)

Figure 2 Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, one of silent cinema’s biggest stars, was accused of causing the death of actress Virginia Rappe during a party Source: Calisphere – Arbuckle and Rappe

During the 1920s, Hollywood faced intense scrutiny following a series of high-profile scandals—including the murder of director William Desmond Taylor killed by Margareat Gibson, later confession on her death bed and the widely publicized accusation of sexual assault against Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle. These incidents fueled public outrage

and reinforced long-standing concerns about the moral integrity of the film industry. In response, lawmakers in 37 states proposed nearly 100 censorship bills in 1921, threatening studios with a patchwork of unpredictable decency laws.

To avoid government intervention, the industry opted for self-regulation in 1922 by appointing Will H. Hays—a Presbyterian elder and former Postmaster General—to lead the newly formed Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA), tasked with restoring Hollywood’s reputation and enforcing moral standards in filmmaking (Black, 1994).

Oscar Micheaux:

Oscar Micheaux, circa 1920s. Source: “Oscar Micheaux (1884–1951).” BlackPast.org, https://blackpast.org/african-american-history/micheaux-oscar-1884-1951/.

The Blueprint of Independent Black Cinema

While Griffith was laying the foundation for white cinematic dominance, Oscar Micheaux was building a counter-empire—one reel at a time. Often called the “father of Black cinema,” Micheaux was a self-taught filmmaker, novelist, and distributor who wrote, directed, and produced over 40 films between 1919 and 1948. His characters were educated, ambitious, flawed, and human—everything Hollywood refused to show. Micheaux was a DIY revolutionary, pressing his own film reels, booking his own

screenings, and selling tickets door-to-door. He didn’t wait for permission—he created his own lane. In God’s Stepchildren (1938), a character refuses to invest in a gambling casino, saying it would be “the root of our destruction” (1). That line wasn’t just dialogue—it was doctrine. Micheaux believed in racial uplift through moral clarity, education, and self-determination. He tackled colorism, classism, and internalized racism decades before mainstream cinema even acknowledged those words. And yet, despite his prolific output and cultural impact, Micheaux was never nominated for a single mainstream award. No Oscar. No Golden Globe. No recognition from the institutions that claimed to honor cinematic excellence.

Hattie McDaniel: A Seat at the Table—But Not Really

It wasn’t until 1940 that a Black actor finally won an Academy Award. Hattie McDaniel took home Best Supporting Actress for her role as Mammy in Gone with the Wind. It was a groundbreaking moment—but also a heartbreaking one. McDaniel was not allowed to sit with her white co-stars at the ceremony. She was seated at a segregated

table in the back of the room. She won for playing a stereotype, not for challenging one. Sidney Poitier won Best Actor in 1964 for Lilies of the Field, but his character was the idealized, non-threatening Black man. The Slap Heard Around the World (Im not talking Will Smith either this was cultural reckoning not a side eye command): Sidney Poitier’s Cinematic Defiance Long before Chappelle and Mo’Nique, Sidney Poitier laid the groundwork for onscreen resistance. In In the Heat of the Night (1967), his character Virgil Tibbs slaps a white plantation owner who had just slapped him. This moment—dubbed “the slap heard around the world”—was revolutionary.“There was a time I could have had you shot.” — Endicott, stunned after Tibbs slaps him back

Poitier’s dignified defiance shattered cinematic norms and symbolized a shift in Black representation—from passive to assertive.Film historian Steve Ryfle called the slap in In the Heat of the Night “historic,” noting it was the first time a Black character physically retaliated against a white character in a major studio film without punishment. He argued that this moment marked a turning point, helping usher in the rise of Black screen heroes (Ryfle, JSTOR Daily).

Denzel Washington won for Training Day(2001), playing a corrupt cop. Halle Berry won for Monster’s Ball(2001), portraying a grieving mother in a hypersexualized role.

These wins were historic, yes—but they were also loaded. As scholar Donald Bogle notes, “Hollywood has a habit of rewarding Black actors when they play roles that fit its comfort

zone” (Bogle). The question isn’t just who wins—it’s what they win for. And until that changes, the reel story of Hollywood remains rooted in a system that celebrates Black pain more than Black power. Reclaiming the Frame: Black Resistance and Representation in Hollywood

In 2005, Dave Chappelle walked away from a $50 million deal with Comedy Central, abandoning Chappelle’s Show at its peak.

His decision was framed as erratic, unstable, or self-sabotaging. But Chappelle later clarified: “I was doing sketches that were funny but socially irresponsible. I felt like I was deliberately being encouraged. I was being rewarded for behaving like a

clown. I was stunned. I said, ‘I gotta boycott this. I gotta get off the bus.’” — Inside the Actors Studio, 2006

This wasn’t madness—it was clarity. Chappelle recognized that his art was being consumed in ways that distorted his intent and caricatured Black identity.

His retreat to South Africa was not an escape—it was a refusal. A refusal to be commodified, misread, and manipulated.

Mo’Nique: Blackballed for Boundaries

Black actors have been forced into stereotypical roles and have settled, being muzzled with the understanding that speaking up and speaking out could be a career ender. “Because that’s not right,” Shannon puts his head down, places his hands over his forehead, and interjects, “Oh my goodness, Mo,” seeming to shun Mo'Nique for telling a woman that she was going to tell her alleged baby daddy that she knew the baby was not his—after this woman had confided in her. “See, I think that’s the problem that we’re dealing with right now,” Mo'Nique continues. Shannon interjects, “Okay.” When we know that something is wrong—everything that Katt Williams said, we all know it to be the truth (referring to a previous interview Shannon had with Katt Williams on the same subject). However, we get so caught up in, “Well, I’m not going to say anything. Can you believe he said it?” Shannon interjects, “It’s the messenger.”

“It’s the messenger,” Mo'Nique goes on to say. “It’s the messenger, baby. We get so caught up in the messenger that we will overlook the message. People have a hard time with a 5-foot-5 giant telling the truth (referring to Katt Williams). People have a hard time

with a Black woman over 200 lbs telling the truth.(Monique’s stand up was never afraid to confront and embrace her size) ” (00:10:14–00:10:53), explains Mo'Nique in her very

well-publicized interview with Shannon Sharpe on his YouTube channel Club Shay Shay. Receiving over 4 million views, this interview was long awaited due to Mo'Nique’s publicized beef with Directors Lee Daniels Oprah Winfrey and Tyler Perry over her role in Precious(2009), that she later won an Academy Award, Golden Globe, BAFTA, SAG and a total of 60 nominations across the board.

Her story echoes Chappelle’s: when Black artists assert boundaries, the industry punishes them. Recognition is conditional. Respect is rationed. And refusal is framed as madness. Jadakiss – “Why”: Hip-Hop as Cultural Critique

Hip-hop artists have long interrogated Hollywood’s racial double standards. In his 2004 track Why, Jadakiss asks:

“Why Halle have to let a white man pop her to get an Oscar? Why Denzel have to be crooked before he took it?”

These lyrics reflect public frustration with the roles Black actors must play to be recognized—often criminal, oversexualized, or morally compromised.

In 2002, Denzel Washington won Best Actor for Training Day, portraying a corrupt LAPD officer. During his acceptance speech, he honored Sidney Poitier:

“Forty years I’ve been chasing Sidney. They finally give it to me, and what do they do? They give it to him the same night.” — Academy Awards, 2002

Later, reflecting on the win, Washington remarked:

“You know, they’ll give it to me when I’m crooked. You know, they’ll give it to me for being a bad guy.” — The Guardian, 2002

That same night, Halle Berry became the first Black woman to win Best Actress for Monster’s Ball. Her performance was immediately overshadowed by public speculation about her sex scene with Billy Bob Thornton. Berry responded:

“It’s a movie. It’s make-believe. No, I didn’t have sex with him. It’s called acting. I was doing my job, and I did it well. That’s why I got the Oscar. Not because I had sex with Billy Bob Thornton.” — Ebony, 2002 These moments of triumph were

laced with critique. Black excellence was recognized—but only through roles steeped in violence, sexuality, or stereotype.

What’s Really Happening in Hollywood?

These moments—from Poitier’s slap to Chappelle’s silence—are not just ruptures. They are acts of reclamation. Each artist, in their own way, refused to be flattened

Hollywood’s gaze. Together, they form a lineage of resistance that redefines what it means to be Black and brilliant on screen.

A wealthy white men slaps tibbs for having the nerve to question about a murder. Sidney Portier immediately returns the gesture and slaps him back, about a murder. This is the slap heard around the world.

The narrative of African Americans in the film industry is not only being rewritten—it’s being reclaimed. With visionary directors, powerful performances, demanding

recognition at the award shows. Support from advocacy organizations, Hollywood is slowly embracing more inclusive storytelling that reflects the full complexity of Black lives beyond trauma and stereotype.

Reclaiming Authorship

Alongside Spike Lee and Denzel Washington, Just to name a few there are three groundbreaking directors who are redefining Black storytelling:

Ava DuVernay, director of Origin, photographed during an interview discussing the film’s themes of race, caste, and identity (Gonzalez).

Ava DuVernay – Selma, 13th, When They See Us, She centers systemic injustice, mass incarceration, and Black resilience, while also building infrastructure for marginalized creators through her company ARRAY. Julie Dash – Daughters of the Dust The first Black woman to direct a feature film with wide

theatrical release in the U.S., Dash’s lyrical storytelling preserves Gullah culture and centers Black women’s spiritual and ancestral journeys.

Figure 1. Jordan Peele, director of Get Out, photographed during a screening and discussion of the film’s racial themes and psychological horror (Payne).

Figure 2. Daniel Kaluuya and Allison Williams, co-stars of Get Out, whose performances helped redefine horror through a racial lens (Payne).

Jordan Peele – Get Out, Us, Nope, Peele revolutionized horror by infusing it with racial allegory, turning genre conventions into tools for social critique.

The Proof Is in the Pudding

This bar graph shows the comparison data of black men vs black women behind the lens of film industry. Showing the gap reducing, that is progress.

This bar graph shows the comparison data of black men and women versus their white peers who won

awards behind the lens of the film industry. You would be correct in noticing that no black cinematographers won awards in 2025.

Black Performances Expanding Emotional and Cultural Range

Viola Davis’s role as Rose Maxson in Fences (2016) offered a layered, emotionally rich portrayal of a woman navigating love, betrayal, and resilience. Her Oscar-winning performance was hailed by peers like Meryl Streep as “monumental” (Streep). Daniel Kaluuya’s haunting turn as Chris Washington in Get Out (2017) redefined what a Black lead could look like in genre film, earning critical acclaim and an Oscar nomination for his nuanced performance (Scott).

Advocacy organizations like ARRAY, Black Film Space, and the African-American Film Critics Association (AAFCA) are reshaping access and accountability in the film industry by launching programs that empower Black creatives and challenge systemic exclusion. Founded by Ava DuVernay, ARRAY offers initiatives like the ARRAY 360 Cinema

Series, which hosts free screenings and conversations spotlighting global voices, and ARRAY 101, a set of educational guides tied to films such as Selma and Origin that

promote civic engagement and narrative change (ARRAYNow.org).

Black Film Space supports filmmakers of African descent through its Symposium Conference, a full-day event of panels and screenings, along with a Jobs & Grants Board and pipeline programs that provide mentorship and career development (BlackFilmSpace.com).

AAFCA, the largest group of Black film critics, advances representation through its SYNERGY Program, multi-city networking events, and its Critics Groups for Equality in Media initiative, which grades entertainment journalism on diversity and inclusion.

https://aafca.com/

Its collaboration with BAFTA on “The Struggle to Be Seen” series further amplifies global Black identity in media (AAFCA.com). Together, these organizations are building infrastructure, shifting power, and proving that advocacy is inseparable from artistic excellence.

These black series center on joy, futurism, spirituality, and everyday life

Black Panther: Wakanda Forever (2022): Afrofuturism, grief, and global Black unity. Kizazi Moto: Generation Fire (2023): African sci-fi anthology celebrating innovation and myth. My Dad the Bounty Hunter (2023): Family-centered Black sci-fi adventure.Sing Sing (2025): Celebrates creativity and healing through prison theater.

The Blackening (2023): Satirical horror that centers Black friendship and genre subversion. Lovecraft Country was more than a hit—it was a cultural reckoning. The series earned 20 Emmy nominations, with Jurnee Smollett, Jonathan Majors, and the late Michael K. Williams all receiving nods for their emotionally rich performances.

Behind the camera, Misha Green’s vision for Season 2—titled Lovecraft Country: Supremacy—imagined a future America fractured into regions like the “New Negro

Republic” and “Whitelands,” boldly confronting white supremacy through speculative fiction. The show’s cancellation came just months after its Emmy success, raising eyebrows across the industry. Critics and fans alike questioned why a series that had proven both commercially viable and artistically groundbreaking was abruptly shelved. Then came the second blow: HBO revealed it had no plans to pursue Green’s radical second season, despite her detailed world-building and the show’s massive cultural momentum. In a landscape where Black-led genre storytelling is still rare, the timing felt less like coincidence—and more like resistance to the very future the show dared to imagine. So we have come a long way but we still have a long way to go.

Is There hope for Black Cinema

The landscape of Black storytelling in film has undeniably expanded—emotionally, culturally, and structurally. Performances like Viola Davis’s in Fences and Daniel Kaluuya’s in Get Out prove that Black actors are not only leading but redefining cinematic genres with depth and nuance. Advocacy organizations like ARRAY and AAFCA are building lasting infrastructure, ensuring that access and authorship are no longer afterthoughts but foundations. That’s progress. Yet, the abrupt cancellation of Lovecraft Country—despite its critical acclaim, cultural impact, and visionary second season—reminds us how fragile that progress can be. When bold, Black-led narratives challenge the status quo too directly, they stay at risk of being denied.

We’ve come a long way, but the road ahead demands vigilance, investment, and radical imagination. The future of Black cinema isn’t just about visibility—it’s about power, power to control our own narratives. To show all aspects and angles of black lives and black vision. I just recently watched Keke Palmer from films like Akeele and the bee and whatever other movies or shows she was on give Angela Basset an BAFATA Award and although I know without a doubt she deserved it i was also saddened that her awards were far too many and her legacy beyond my years was made evident but she also gave me hope and her thank you speech, she mentioned the shift of these times and the understandable uncertainty that people of color in film have always faced that on this platform we are needed all aspects and perspectives of the black voice but we must not rely on someone else to tell our story. I love her for that as she also mentioned in her decadent years that she is far from done.