The Last Straw

By Herman M. Lagon

There are films that entertain, and there are films that stay with you even after you have seen the end credits. Tyler Perry’s Straw belongs to the latter. It is not a film that demands applause for its polish or restraint. It is a cry. It is unfiltered. It is, in many ways, a mess. However, it is the kind of mess that comes from a life where no one helped tidy it up. And maybe that is why it cuts so close to the bone, especially for those who have carried more than they should have in silence.

I watched Straw when it debuted on Netflix in early June with my daughter, Parvane. It centers on a struggling single mom with a day of back-to-back crises as she fights to make it through one day on the brink of herself. I won’t even attempt going into detail, as I wish I could avoid ruining it for those still yet to see it. I truly hope you do.

Nonetheless, we cried, unapologetically. The film hit us in places we did not expect—raw, personal places. Then I posted on social media: “Mind droppings: Straw on Netflix resonates so close to home. Such an amazing tale which all classes of humankind, countries, and lifestyles can all recognize and somehow relate to.” To my surprise, many replied, agreeing they had indeed felt the same way. That night, we asked my daughter in the U.S., Psyche, to watch it, too. She did, just last week. And she cried even more profusely than we did.

Hidden Figures and Think Like a Man actress Taraji P. Henson does not act in Straw; she is just “is.” Her portrayal of Janiyah, a single mother whose day goes from bad to worse to worst, is not something one watches. It is something one endures. There’s a haunting authenticity in how she walks and stares, how she off-tunes, and how she carries her daughter as if she’s at once a lifeline and an anchor. Henson does not perform pain—she surrenders to it. And you feel it. In the throat. In the gut. In the spaces, you rarely let anyone see.

To call it melodramatic is fair. A lot can happen in a day: job loss, eviction, rejection, brutality, slander, tragedy, or violence. And a twist that has left critics divided, with some accusing Perry of exploiting trauma for shock value. It drowns.

This is not just a film for Black single mothers. It is a film all of us who have ever gazed into a mirror and thought, “Just how much can I take?” can relate to. Right in our communities, where single motherhood is often viewed with quiet judgment, where mental health remains a taboo wrapped in rosaries and toxic resilience, Straw hits a nerve. Because we know this woman. She may not be in Atlanta. She may be in Iloilo. Or Laguna. Or Palawan. Or Negros. Or Cebu. Or Davao. But her story is here. In overworked public schools, teachers raise kids alone. In the call center, agents get home past midnight only to do homework with their children. In Hong Kong, caregivers send money back home while their children grow up without them.

Critics can pick apart the plausibility of the plot. They can argue that the twist is lazy or manipulative. But those who have lived through a kind of private apocalypse understand that logic is not always part of the pain. Trauma lacks a clear and distinct structure. Desperation does not wait for pacing. It is not a flawless film, perhaps, but it is an uncompromising one—a film that will make you squirm all for the very best of reasons.

And then there is the silence. Straw understands the kind of silence that suffocates. Those shots of Janiyah struggling to put herself back together when she is with her daughter, of the camera lingering just long enough on a close-up of Janiyah’s face once the door has shut—those moments are familiar. They mirror the invisible labor many women perform daily. Holding in the scream, hiding the tears, and smiling through the wreckage.

What this film reminds you is strength, as admirable as it is, has a cost. We romanticize the strong woman, the tough mom, the non-complainer. But what if she loses it? But what happens when she finally snaps? Do we blame her? Or why did no one notice the cracks? In a society that still values image over inquiry and performance over pain, Straw is a reckoning.

No, it is not perfect. Some supporting performances feel flat. The pacing falters in parts. However, judging it solely by cinematic standards misses the point. Great films do not always wear prestige. Sometimes, greatness is in the impact, not the craft. Think of The Pursuit of Happyness or Precious—not the most polished, but unforgettable in emotional weight. Even our very own Pamilya Ordinaryo and Magnifico do not scream blockbuster but leave bruises on the soul. They stay with you because they show truths others are too afraid—or too tidy—to tell. Straw has made tens of thousands, if not millions, cry. Not because it manipulates but because it reflects. And for many, that reflection is unbearable. And healing.

There are scenes in this film that are hard to watch. Not due to violence or gore, but because they appear all too familiar. Most of the most frightening moments take place when they show people of authority—managers over employees, traffic cops over drivers, doctors over patients, teachers over students, even customers over cashiers—their power, many a time with bias motivated by race, social class, or prejudice masked as procedure. Like the time a friend said she would watch your child as you process the hospital bills for your ailing mother, but never showed up. Or when a supervisor gave you an extra shift despite knowing your daughter was sick. Or when you deserved a promotion but was railroaded to someone else. Or when you direly asked for help and were met with silence. These are the true horror scenes of everyday life.

And that is what makes Straw powerful. It does not give you a savior. It gives you a mirror. It does not end with a speech. It ends with a question: How many people around you are already at their last straw? And have you really looked?

We can debate whether the film is artful. But it has already done what art is meant to do. It disturbed. It provoked. It moved. It reached people who have long felt unseen. If that is not an award-worthy performance, what is?

If not an Oscar, Taraji P. Henson deserves a world that listens to women like Janiyah before they break. At the very least, she owes a golden statue to the millions of women quietly holding it together every day—before one more crack makes everything fall apart. And Perry, flaws and all, has dared to amplify a story that too many ignore until it is too late. That matters. That should count.

Straw may not be for everyone. But for those it was made for, it is everything.

***

Doc H fondly describes himself as a ‘student of and for life’ who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.