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Thoughts on this movie?

Okay so this isn’t a hate post but hear me out on this I thought season 2 was an 8/10.

So my first con is how they handled apocalypse which is everyone’s con cause why was he so intimidating in episode 4 then he gets turned into a joke by fusing with a dead guy which is never explained. You can tell episode 4 was preparing us for the finale cause apocalypse was so evil he had kang running. Also in episode 4 it seems like candra was definitely going to have a bigger role instead of just getting killed off in 10 seconds.

Next con is the character focused episodes it’s nothing wrong with them I think they are great but last season we had them and they still moved the story while these didn’t. They literally felt like what if episodes “what if wolverine wanted the adimantium”, “what if Polaris joined the x-men” “what if Nightcrawler challenged his brother”.

3rd con is them just killing characters off left and right and not having any respect for them at all. Like genosha might have killed people off but not in dumb ways like why did Magik just sacrifice herself for no reason? Exodus dies from a lazer shot and he’s an omega mutant? Like mutants died in episode 5 after that we didn’t see any more mutant deaths just humans.

Even though it was still some of demayo’s ideas but there’s no way the finale was cause he literally had the set up for apocalypse to be the final threat (not gambitpocalypse and for onslaught to be season 3 threat.

Let me begin by saying something that should not be controversial: I am happy for Maya Boyd.

Being cast as Storm in Marvel Studios’ upcoming X-Men film is an enormous achievement, and Boyd deserves the opportunity to step into one of the most iconic roles in comic-book history.

But I also believe two things can be true at the same time: I can celebrate Maya Boyd while still believing Storm should be portrayed by a dark-skinned Black woman.

And judging by the reaction to the casting, I’m clearly not the only person who feels that way.

The debate surrounding Boyd’s casting has quickly become about more than whether she can act, whether she looks like Storm, or whether Marvel made the right creative decision. For many Black fans, particularly dark-skinned Black fans, the conversation has reopened an uncomfortable question:

Who gets to represent Blackness on screen? And which version of Blackness does Hollywood find most acceptable?

For light-skinned African Americans, this casting choice rarely registers as a point of contention. Light-skinned individuals have long seen themselves represented across media platforms because light skin combined with features aligned with European beauty standards has historically been deemed more "palatable" to mainstream, predominantly white audiences. When representation is ubiquitous, the subtle nuances of colorism inside the Black community are easy to overlook.

Storm is not just another black comic book character. She occupies a very specific place in Black popular culture.

Ororo Munroe is not merely a Black superhero who happens to have superpowers. She is an African woman, a Kenyan princess, a former thief, a goddess figure, an X-Man, a leader and one of the most powerful mutants in the Marvel Universe.

That history matters. Because when we talk about who plays Storm, we’re not simply talking about the casting of another superhero.

We’re talking about the visual representation of one of the most powerful Black women ever created in American popular culture.

And that’s why skin tone matters to me.

Like many, my personal vision of Storm has always been a dark-skinned Black woman. Not because lighter skinned Black women aren’t Black.

Not because light-skinned Black women aren’t beautiful.

And certainly not because Maya Boyd is somehow less deserving of this opportunity.

I want a dark-skinned Storm because dark-skinned Black women deserve to see themselves occupying the highest levels of power, beauty, heroism and desirability too.

Marvel calls her one of the most famous and powerful mutants on the planet!

That is extraordinary representation.

But for a second I implore you to imagine what it means for a young dark-skinned Black girl to see a woman who looks specifically like her portrayed as that woman.

Not the sidekick.
Not the comic relief.
Not the best friend.
Not the background character.

The goddess.
The leader.
The superhero.
The one everybody else looks to when the world is falling apart.

That’s what Storm can mean.

And this is where Colorism enters the chat.

Colorism is not imaginary.

It is a documented social phenomenon in which people can be treated differently based on their skin tone, with lighter skin often receiving preferential treatment over darker skin.

A 2023 study in the Journal of Black Psychology examined colorism among African American women. Among the 187 participants surveyed, 88% perceived that skin color preferences existed within African American communities, and among those surveyed, 64% said lighter skin was preferred. Nearly 43% personally indicated a preference for a skin tone lighter than their own.

And this isn’t simply an abstract academic discussion.

In 2025, research examining perceptions of Black beauty influencers found that darker-skinned influencers were rated as less attractive and less competent than lighter and medium skinned influencers by the predominantly Black audience. The researchers also found participants were less likely to click on content featuring darker-skinned influencers.

So when a dark-skinned Black person looks at Hollywood and says, “I don’t see enough people who look like me being presented as desirable,” that isn’t necessarily insecurity many want to label it as.

There is research suggesting that the hierarchy we are noticing actually exists.

This is not an argument against light-skinned Black folks. Not in the slightest.

Yet it’s an argument for recognizing light-skin privilege within Black representation. If you’re a light-skinned Black person with features that are closer to Eurocentric beauty standards, you may genuinely feel represented.

You can look at Hollywood and see Black actors who look like you.

You can look at fashion campaigns and see Black models who resemble you.

You can look at music videos, television, advertising and movies and find people who share your complexion or facial features.

And because you’re represented, another casting decision may not feel particularly significant. You may look at Maya Boyd as Storm and think:

“She’s Black. What’s the problem?”

But for somebody who is significantly darkerskinned, like myself, the reaction can be very different.

Because we are not asking, “Is she Black enough?”

We’re asking:

“When do people who look like ME get to be the beauty standard?”

That’s a completely different question.

And yet some of you might still respond:

“But there are dark-skinned Black actresses everywhere now.”

Which…is technically true. But representation isn’t simply about counting Black people.

Representation is about who gets which roles.

Who gets to be the romantic lead?
Who gets to be considered beautiful?
Who gets to be the billionaire?
Who gets to be the superhero?
Who gets to be the princess?
Who gets to be the goddess?
Who gets to be the character whose image is placed on posters, lunchboxes, Halloween costumes and merchandise?

And most importantly: Who gets to embody the ideal?

Because there is a difference between being represented and being idealized.

That’s the distinction I think gets lost in this conversation.

Ironically, Storm’s history makes this conversation particularly interesting.

Storm has always been Black, but her visual representation has not always been a straightforward reflection of African beauty.

She has traditionally been depicted with white hair and blue eyes—features that create an intentionally fantastical contrast with her African identity.

And that is important. Because Storm’s Blackness has never simply been about putting a Black face on a superhero.

Her character is deeply connected to Africa, Black womanhood, power and the complicated ways American popular culture has historically imagined Black women.

Hollywood has already given us a pattern.

Look at Storm’s live-action history.

Halle Berry played Storm in the original X-Men film franchise.

Alexandra Shipp later played a younger version of the character.

Both actresses are Black, but both are also relatively light-skinned and have features that have historically fit more comfortably within Hollywood’s conventional beauty standards.

That doesn’t diminish either actress.

Halle Berry is an accomplished actress.

Alexandra Shipp is an accomplished actress.

But after decades of Storm adaptations, it is completely reasonable for Black audiences to ask whether Hollywood has ever seriously considered what it would mean to put a dark-skinned Black woman in the role.

That’s the conversation I believe we’re having now.

Here’s where my argument becomes uncomfortable.

American entertainment has historically been more comfortable with Blackness when it is packaged in ways that remain familiar to mainstream, and historically white, beauty standards.

That doesn’t mean every light-skinned Black actor is cast because white people prefer them. Nor does it mean every casting director consciously thinks, “Let’s find someone who looks less African.”

Colorism doesn’t have to operate through a conspiracy. That’s what makes it so difficult.

Systems can reproduce preferences even when individual people aren’t consciously trying to reproduce them. If an industry repeatedly associates beauty, desirability and marketability with lighter skin and Eurocentric features, eventually those preferences become normalized.

That is the larger issue.

Not Maya Boyd.

Not light-skinned Black women.

The hierarchy itself.

One of the reasons I think this conversation is important is because we’ve already seen how powerful representation can be when Hollywood gives audiences something they historically haven’t received.

Chadwick Boseman’s T’Challa mattered.
Not simply because he was Black.

Because he was a dark-skinned Black man presented as the ultimate hero.
He was wealthy.
He was intelligent.
He was powerful.
He was technologically advanced.
He was a king.
He was desirable.
He was honorable.

And he wasn’t required to become less Black in order to be the center of the story.

For many Black men and boys, like myself, that representation was enormously meaningful. When I laid eyes on the residents of Wakanda, I teared up in the theater because I saw a world of brilliance occupied by faces that looked solely like mine.

So I ask:
Why shouldn’t dark-skinned Black girls and women have the same experience?
Why shouldn’t they look at the screen and see a woman with deep brown skin standing at the center of the Marvel Universe?
Why shouldn’t she be the goddess?
Why shouldn’t she be the one commanding lightning?
Why shouldn’t she be the woman everyone else is trying to impress?
Why shouldn’t she be Storm?

And Marvel Comics is already showing us that Storm CAN look this way. This is another reason I don’t believe the idea of a dark-skinned Storm is somehow incompatible with the character.

Recent Storm comics have emphasized her African heritage by coloring her darker skinned. In other words, there is no reason Storm has to look like one specific version of herself.

But if we’re going to make a choice, I would personally choose the version that gives something to an audience that has historically received less.

Give me the dark-skinned Storm.
Give me the Storm who looks unmistakably African.
Give me the Storm whose complexion isn’t softened for mainstream comfort.
Give me the Storm who makes a dark-skinned little girl say:

“She’s beautiful! She looks like me.”

I want to make this distinction extremely clear-

When dark-skinned Black people ask for more representation, the answer should not be:

“But light-skinned Black people are Black too.”

We know.

We are not questioning anybody’s Blackness.

And when I say I want a dark-skinned Storm, I am not saying Maya Boyd shouldn’t have gotten the job.

She did.
She is Storm now.
I hope she absolutely kills it.
I hope she gives us a performance so incredible that ten years from now people can’t imagine anybody else playing Ororo Munroe.
I want her to succeed for the sake of the character alone.

One of the biggest mistakes we can make when discussing diversity is treating “Black” as a single visual category.

Black people aren’t monolithic.

There are dark-skinned Black people.
Light-skinned Black people.
Brown-skinned Black people.
Black people with African features.
Black people with European features.
Black people with Asian features.
Black people with curly hair, kinky hair, straight hair, locs, braids and everything in between.

All of that is Blackness.

But representation becomes meaningful when all of those people get opportunities to be seen as beautiful, powerful and important.

If one particular version of Blackness consistently receives more opportunities to occupy the cultural center, then simply saying “but they’re Black” doesn’t resolve the underlying problem.

It actually prevents us from talking about it.

So Yes, I Have a Problem With Storm Being Light-Skinned

But my problem isn’t Maya Boyd.

My problem is the fact that I can look at the history of Black women in mainstream entertainment and see a recurring pattern in which lighter-skinned women and women with features closer to Eurocentric beauty ideals often receive greater visibility and desirability.

And then I look at Storm.

A character who is supposed to represent an African woman.
A character who is one of the most powerful beings in Marvel.
A character who has led the X-Men.
A character who has been a goddess and a queen.
A character who has been part of Marvel for more than fifty years.

And I think:
This could have been our moment.
A dark-skinned Black woman’s moment.
And I don’t think it is wrong to say that I wanted that.

To My Light-Skinned Black Brothers and Sisters
I am not asking you to feel guilty for being represented.

I’m just asking you to recognize that representation doesn’t necessarily feel the same for everyone.
If you are light-skinned and you see yourself represented constantly, that’s wonderful.
But understand why someone darker might look at the same screen and feel something completely different.

You don’t have to surrender your representation.
You don’t have to apologize for your complexion.
You don’t have to diminish Maya Boyd.
But you can recognize that what feels like enough representation to you may not feel like enough representation to somebody else.

Because sometimes the people who have been closest to the cultural center don’t realize how far away from that center everyone else has been standing.

Let Maya Boyd Be Storm.

And let me still say:
I wanted her to be darker.
Not because dark-skinned people are more Black.
Not because light-skinned Black people aren’t beautiful.
Not because Maya Boyd isn’t talented.

But because I know what it feels like to look at popular culture and rarely see your complexion treated as the visual embodiment of beauty, power and heroism.

Storm is one of the most powerful Black women in American popular culture. I want the next generation of dark-skinned Black girls to know that women who look like them ARE powerful enough to command the sky.

They can be queens.
They can be goddesses.
They can be leaders.
They are beautiful.
They can be desired.
They can be the face on the poster.
They can be Storm.

And if asking for that makes the conversation uncomfortable, perhaps that’s exactly why we need to have it.

Thoughts on this movie?

This movie had everyone at my showing laughing, wincing, cheering & shouting at the screen. Really solid 90 mins of action. Anne Hathaway was great!