Has the Black Lives Matter movement shifted Hollywood’s approach to inclusivity?

I was 19 when I consciously decided to limit my intake of films and TV shows that made me feel distressed. Supporting Black talent was always at the forefront of my mind, but not at the expense of my mental health. However, Steve McQueen’s 12 Years A Slave (2013) piqued my interest and I went for a late-night viewing with three friends.

The gritty and impactful period drama illuminates important truths about the slave trade, colonisation and the unfathomable trauma inflicted on millions of enslaved African Americans. Its box-office figures were a testament to its success, raking in $180m worldwide. But, while my friends delved into an in-depth analysis of the film, I couldn’t stop thinking about one scene in particular where Patsey, an African-American slave played by Lupita Nyong'o, was struck repeatedly with a whip. Her screams plagued my mind. Seeing a darker-skinned woman, one with the same complexion as me, subjected to such torture bordered on unwatchable.

After McQueen’s wildly successful film, there seemed to be an acceleration of projects being greenlit by upper echelons (often non-Black) in Hollywood, frequently diminishing Black identity to a monolithic experience. Watching flicks that blur the lines between reality and fiction—police brutality seems to be a focal point of late—can be exhausting for the Black community when it becomes repetitive. We too deserve to see stories that provide a reprieve from the real world.

Unsurprisingly, storylines led by non-Black screenwriters tend to be imbued in sorrow or lean on hollow characterisation largely due to a huge disparity in screenwriting rooms (in 2019, the number of minority screenwriters in the US increased by a mere two per cent). “We have to consider that these narratives—of Black suffering and noble white saviours — are soothing to the soul of a world globally still trying to grapple with the horrific moral stain of slavery, colonialism and racism,” says film and TV critic Ellen E Jones to Vogue. “Simultaneously, [these creators] want to guard the economic and social privilege that this dark history has afforded them.”

When stories fall into the hands of those outside of the Black community, the conversation not only becomes regressive, but dangerous, too. Jones continues: “We see the humanity in people from all different backgrounds and walks of life because cinema and TV have taught us to. Not being from minority groups—and often having little meaningful contact with people from different backgrounds—means non-Black creators are forced to rely on stereotypes and two-dimensional depictions.” This begs the question, will we ever see an industry that spearheads inclusion—in front and behind the lens?

The Black Lives Matter movement and its visibility in entertainment

The murder of George Floyd in May 2020, after he was held down by a police officer for almost nine minutes, was the catalyst for a series of global protests. It prompted days of outrage as disturbing footage of his death circulated on social media and law enforcement protocols in the US were, once again, called into question. Infographics pledging allegiance to anti-racism flooded Instagram feeds and companies vowed to reflect on their hiring practices and diversity schemes. Within the wider spectrum, a magnifying glass was held up to the aeons of gatekeeping in the creative industry.

Last June, more than 4,000 creatives — among them, actor and screenwriter Michaela Coel and recipient of this year’s BAFTA for Outstanding Contribution to British Cinema Noel Clarke — urged the industry to help stamp out racism and actively hire more Black talent and POC within all sectors. “Blackness on-screen is humanising the Black experience,” Lydia West, star of TV show It’s A Sin, tells Vogue. “[Black people] deserve to tell our tales and experiences no longer behind the lens of white narratives, but showing a full spectrum of nuance and humanity — joy, love, grief and anger without limitation.”

Meanwhile, one of TV’s leading pioneers, Insecure screenwriter and actor Issa Rae told Vogue she would be curious to see “which projects would be scrapped” in the wake of BLM. It’s not uncommon for stifled Black and POC actors to leave British soil in favour of work in the US, says Jones. “It’s a crying shame because they’re not supported in their careers or offered opportunities over here.”

Representation on-screen throughout 2020 and beyond

Fast-forward to 2021, six years after diversity advocate April Reign coined the viral hashtag #OscarsSoWhite (a movement that highlighted the lack of representation at the 87th Academy Awards) and following on from the British Film Institute’s 2019 regulation, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science introduced a diversity requirement for Best Picture eligibility. Said to be fully enacted by 2024, films submitted must meet at least two of the four on-screen standards including: ‘one minority actor playing a lead role’ and plotlines that ‘centralise either women, the LGBTQ+ community, ethnic groups or the disabled’. Meanwhile, Regina King made history this year by unveiling her feature directorial debut One Night in Miami… at the Venice Film Festival, making it the first movie directed by an African-American woman to be selected by the festival (it also picked up three nominations at this month’s 93rd Academy Awards).

Recognition of Black-British talent has proved somewhat fruitful across mainstream media in 2021. Daniel Kaluuya’s raw portrayal of Black Panther chairman Fred Hampton in Judas and the Black Messiah saw him secure both a BAFTA and Golden Globe this year (he’s hotly anticipated to take home Best Supporting Actor at the Oscars). Emerging actor Bukky Bakray is a beacon of hope for young rising actors, securing two BAFTA nominations and one win earlier this month, including the Rising Star Award.

On the small screen, multi-hyphenate stars such as Nigerian-American comedian Ziwe Fumudoh are being given primetime TV slots. Shonda Rhimes’ steamy period drama Bridgerton, with its beautifully diverse cast, broke Netflix streaming records and racked up 82m viewers. Indeed, while there seem to be slow-moving changes—“I think that [we’re] going to see more idealistic representations of the world that we live in,” Issa Rae tells Vogue—there is undoubtedly more work to be done.

The 2020 annual Writers Guild of America West (WGAW) report revealed that from 2019 to 2020, the hiring rate for underrepresented screenwriters had marginally improved, but roles were often short-lived. Additionally, POC made up a mere 35 per cent of TV writers (an increase of only five per cent since the year before) meaning the bulk of TV scripting in the US is still determined by white writers.

Minority creatives (if they’re fortunate enough to be able to fund independent projects) are taking to carving their own lanes. Sixteen-year-old trailblazer Marsai Martin, executive producer and actress, recently revealed she would be developing a comedy show—picked up by Disney—about a teenage girl’s competitive roller-skating crew and her battle with sickle cell disease. Her one on-screen rule? No Black pain.

It’s understood that colourism is an integral part—and often at the root—of the industry. After all, Zendaya famously stated in 2018 that she was “Hollywood’s acceptable version of a Black girl” and it's become routine for lighter-skinned actors to play roles that erase their darker-skinned counterparts. Resorting to ‘The Brown Paper Bag Test’ (a colourist practice used to discriminate between Black people) isn’t totally obsolete, as prominent darker-skinned leads are few and far between. Glee actor Samantha Marie Ware recently pointed this out on her Instagram: “Casting offices have strung Black women on delicate strings for far too long and even when dark skin femmes are finally cast, they are sidekicks or emotional dumpsters for their yt counterparts.” If we’re not seeing roles that cater to varied experiences, is the solution then to create our own stories from scratch?

How storytelling is being redefined among Black creators

Artistry in the 1990s and early 2000s has become the blueprint for Black storytelling. I watched Waiting to Exhale (1995) for the first time two years ago. A fundamental landmark in Black cinema, it perfectly sums up the nuances of Black sisterhood. The message is clear: nothing is stronger than the bond between friends. Tragedy befalls them, but it isn’t the crux of the film. Plotlines feel refreshing—there’s a reason sitcoms such as Girlfriends (2000 to 2008) are still in demand 13 years after their final airdates. Creating what you wanted to see didn’t feel completely out of reach a few decades ago, and is the way forward, Jones explains. “Telling our own stories and not waiting for permission from any white majority institution is key.”

Ultimately, we can’t allow trauma porn to dominate our screens. Witnessing visionaries such as Issa Rae start companies to amplify the voices of underrepresented artists is a nod to the future of film. The pressure for artists of colour to represent an entire community needs to end, a possibility that seems tangible following the visibility of movements such as Black Lives Matter. “The expectations put on Black artists are nonsensical and in themselves racist. Many large media organisations don’t want the bad publicity that now comes from presenting a glaringly all-white image to the world. Our real task is to ensure not just diverse casting in front of the camera— that’s just superficial window dressing—but true creative freedom for artists of colour behind the camera and in industry positions of power.”

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