Eddie Murphy was, and still is, one of the few Black megastars whose fame directly challenged racial barriers. His early crossover hits — 48 Hours (1982), Trading Places (1983), Beverly Hills Cop (1984) — often depicted Murphy “crashing the party” in traditionally white-dominated settings. But my personal favorites of his were the films that featured Murphy as one, of many, Black stars converging to imagine distinctly Black cinematic spaces. Harlem Nights (1989) is an underrated showcase of Black comedy legends like Richard Pryor and Redd Foxx. I could probably recite every line from Coming to America (1988) (I was this close to having “She’s Your Queen to Be” sung at my own wedding). And then, of course, there’s Boomerang, which celebrates its 30th anniversary this month.
Directed by Reginald Hudlin, (1990’s House Party and 2019’s The Black Godfather), this rom-com stars Murphy as Marcus Graham, a buppie Lothario who falls for the stunning new exec at his office, Jacqueline Broyer (Robin Givens), only to receive the same treatment from her that he’s given to countless other women. There are many reasons to love this movie — it’s got cool to spare. It features a funny cast, including Martin Lawrence and David Alan Grier as Marcus’s running buddies Tyler and Gerard. It’s got a fresh, super-90s R&B soundtrack featuring Toni Braxton, Boyz II Men, P.M. Dawn, and Babyface. And it’s an unapologetically sexy movie in theme and tone, wielding much of the same explicit, insightful humor as Murphy’s stand-up comedy. While all of this made an impression on me as a young viewer, perhaps the most formative — particularly as a young Black viewer — was the film’s distinct, deliberate representation of Black people. To appreciate the cultural significance of Boomerang, we need to understand the context of the era in which the film was produced and what that era can teach us about Black representation in entertainment today.
It’s clear from its opening moments that Boomerang is a Black movie. That’s not to say it’s inaccessible to non-Black audiences (least of all its screenwriters, Barry Blaustein and David Sheffield). Rather, it’s a movie centered on, and populated almost entirely by, Black characters. Marcus is an executive at Chantress, a fictional cosmetics company whose New York office seems to be operated exclusively by Black people — from Marcus, the VP of Marketing, down to Bony-T (Chris Rock), one of the self-proclaimed “minimum wage brothas in the mailroom.” Chantress is acquired early in the film, and its new parent company, Lady Eloise, also appears to be geared toward Black clients and staffed solely by Black employees, with Jacqueline as its new Head of Marketing. The landscape outside the office is just as melanin-rich, with restaurants, gyms, clubs, classrooms, and the city streets filled primarily by Black supporting actors. Mind you, this is not a small production filmed on a soundstage, nor is the action limited to a single location or neighborhood. What the film does, then, is present us with a fully-realized society in which Black characters not only live, but thrive, without the requisite deference to the approval of white characters.
Setting Boomerang in the world of fashion and cosmetics puts Black glamor on full display. Everyone is impeccably styled at all times, dressed in designer suits, scarves, and trenchcoats. The cast of Boomerang is so attractive that the character of Angela — a shy, plain Jane counterpart to the ravishing Jacqueline — is played by none other than Halle Berry! Nowhere is the film’s Black glamor more evident than at a company gala celebrating the aforementioned merger. There, we’re introduced to the “new face of Lady Eloise,” a fabulously erratic supermodel named Strangé — played by music and fashion icon, Grace Jones — who arrives at the party wearing a crown, driving an ornate Roman chariot drawn by four scantly-clad white men. “Champagne pour tout le monde!” she announces triumphantly to a largely Black crowd donning gowns and tuxedos. Here, we see beauty and fashion as an extension of power, with Strangé rocking a Cleopatra-style wig and a netted leather frock, swinging her whip — equal parts queen and dominatrix.
Indeed, despite Marcus’s role as Boomerang‘s protagonist, the film is just as, if not more, interested in the empowerment of its female characters. Jacqueline is more than Marcus’s equal; she’s his superior, both professionally and sexually. The eponymous Lady Eloise — portrayed by the elegant, sultry screen legend Eartha Kitt — is a woman of wealth, prestige, and sexual voracity. The everbold Strangé brings her feminine might to each of her scenes, including one in which she suggests they name her new designer fragrance “Steel Vagina”. By the end of the film, even mousy Angela holds a position of power in both her job and her relationship. Meanwhile, Marcus and his libertine ways are the subject of derision, especially by his spurned neighbor, Yvonne (Tisha Campbell), who, loudly and comically, wards off any woman whom Marcus wards off any woman that Marcus brings home. It’s not until he recognizes the damage of his actions that Marcus develops an appreciation for those closest to him, friends and lovers alike. We, too, gain an appreciation for who these characters are and what they can be: strong, beautiful, and complicated Black people. In this way, Boomerang falls right in line with the Black entertainment zeitgeist of its day.
The 90s were a time of Black excellence on screen. I’ve written briefly before about this period, in which positive, diverse images of Black people were regularly seen on network TV. But when we examine this period — what I like to refer to as “The Flavor Era,” a reference to the hit 90s Black sitcom Living Single (1993-1998) — we see more than the tokenism often associated with Black visibility. From 1990-2000, there were no fewer than 25 shows on primetime network television featuring majority Black casts, produced by Black creatives, telling stories about the complexities of Black life in America. Classic examples include: NBC’s The Cosby Show (1984-1992) and A Different World (1987-1993); ABC’s Family Matters (1989-1997) and Sister, Sister (1994-1999); Fox’s In Living Color (1990-1994) and Martin (1992-1997); The Parent ‘Hood (1995-1999) and The Steve Harvey Show (1996-2002) on the WB; and The Jamie Foxx Show (1996-2001), Moesha (1996-2001), and Girlfriends (2000-2008) on UPN. These and other shows focused on stable, nurturing, tightly-knit Black families and friend groups, most of whom were part of America’s Black middle class — with a few reaching a higher tax bracket, like the Banks family of NBC’s The Fresh Prince of Bel Air (1990-1996). This programming was a departure from the 90s “‘hood movie” boom that gave us Boyz n the Hood (1991), Menace II Society (1993), and other films — great films — highlighting the blight of violence and despair plaguing working class Black communities.
“The Flavor Era” also differed from the classic Black television of prior decades. Those programs were certainly revolutionary, but often presented Black life largely as a never-ending response to white supremacy. While the Jeffersons were “movin’ on up” into an escholan dominated by white people — such was the show’s premise and source of comedy — the Huxtables were just one successful Black family among many in their social group. Shows from “The Flavor Era” featured Black people who were prominent doctors, lawyers, writers, scholars, artists, and entrepreneurs, making Black American culture synonymous with academic and professional success. That’s not to say the appeal was all about money; the Banks family weren’t better people because they were wealthy, for example. It was, however, about representation — representation of our potential, our achievements, and our community. None of these shows were completely devoid of white characters, of course. But like Boomerang, “The Flavor Era” demonstrated how Black people could live, laugh, and love amongst themselves, independent of the white gaze.
Conversely, today we find “representation” often replaced by the strive for “inclusion,” the insistence that Black characters be inserted — however inorganically — into otherwise white cinematic spaces, rather than creating our own. This inclusion may take the form of the well-trodden token — the lone Black friend, the Black supervisor, the Black straight-man, the Black lady therapist — flatley-drawn in comparison to the more dynamic white protagonist. It may also take the form of gimmicky revisionist casting, in which formerly white characters are superficially replaced by Black actors at the expense of representing uniquely Black perspectives. This has resulted in the resurgence of the thirst to be first, the George Jeffersonian relish in trailblazing the entertainment landscape with regard to race. I’m not saying that such accomplishments ought to be ignored completely, or that we shouldn’t consider racial diversity in film and television casting (as well as writing and production). But the framing of this brand of recognition often ignores the fact that we’ve been to the top before, that the Black community at large has already proven its ability to dominate mainstream entertainment. At its peak in 1997, “The Flavor Era” produced an impressive 18 Black-centerd programs airing in primetime across five networks. Further, such a narrative tethers Black achievement with white acceptance, perpetuating our underdog status — on screen, as well as in the public’s imagination — with a greater focus on our deficits rather than our gains.
Representation, in this case, doesn’t mean that Black entertainment cannot and should not also address issues that disproportionately impact the Black community — otherwise, who would? Indeed, “The Flavor Era” delivered episodes highlighting everything from police brutality to HIV/AIDS. Boomerang, too, waded into the topic of racism, albeit humorously. In one scene, a white sales rep follows Marcus, Tyler, and Gerard through a high-end clothing store, and informs the trio that “there is no layaway plan.” Marcus doesn’t fret, and casually explains to the boys, “There’s a certain group of people with a natural fear of Black people. They’re programmed.” He then sneaks up behind the rep, who jumps when Marcus screams “Now!” in his ear. “See how frightened he was,” Marcus says, smirking. “He thought it was the end of the world.” Later, Tyler uses the game of pool to break down American racism: “The white ball dominates everything,” he explains, “And the game is over when the white ball drives the black ball completely off the table.” Thus, he insists, the game represents “the white man’s fear of the sexual potency of Black balls.” Both scenes are played for laughs, but they nonetheless reflect how the Black experience in America means reckoning with the perceptions and attitudes of white people, no matter how successful the Black person involved. The key here is that said success is not determined or inhibited by those attitudes. White characters play such a minimal, ancillary role in Boomerang that the Black characters are given a good deal of room to breathe without asking, or needing, permission to do so.
As I rewatch Boomerang 30 years later, I’m struck by the broader picture the film paints of the Black community, especially compared to the popular deficit model of media representation today. And, so, as we celebrate Boomerang, let’s take the opportunity to reconsider it as more than just another rom-com, or simply a “Black movie,” but rather a snapshot of a key period in Black entertainment, one that reminds us that successful Black stories need not focus solely on our trauma or exclusion. This is not to overlook current Black artists who have made successful strides in recognizing and validating authentic, diverse Black perspectives on film. Issa Rae’s Insecure (2016-2021) — a dramedy about Black Angelenos seeking personal, professional, and romantic satisfaction, in the vein of Living Single — was a critical hit. Filmmaker Jordan Peele has redefined sci-fi horror by pushing Black stories to the forefront of his work. And movie mogul Tyler Perry has built the largest film studio in the US, on which he produces, primarily, film and television by and about Black people. It’s important to remember that these successes are not outliers, but rather part of a legacy. Boomerang, along with the television zeitgeist of the 1990s, normalized Black success and presented three-dimensional Black characters whose lives revolved around more than their race, or the “tragedy” thereof. So let’s reconsider the significant influence that Black entertainment has had, and can have, on its audience, and on how they see themselves and their place in this society. Finally, let’s reconsider the larger narrative about what Black people can accomplish by looking back and celebrating that which we already have.
