There’s something deeply unsettling about hearing that Sidney Poitier, a titan of Black cinematic excellence, once told Eddie Murphy not to pursue a role in Malcolm X. Not because the role wasn’t a good fit. Not because the timing wasn’t right. But because, in his words, “You are not Denzel. You are not Morgan. You’re a breath of fresh air. Don’t f— with that.”
Depending on your lens, that’s either mentorship or a muzzle.
Murphy himself wasn’t sure how to take it. “I didn’t know if it was an insult or a compliment,” he said during a recent interview for the Apple TV+ documentary Number One on the Call Sheet: Black Leading Men in Hollywood. And honestly? Neither do I.
But I do know this: telling Black artists to stick to what they’re known for has been Hollywood’s favorite form of sabotage since the studio system was invented.
The Burden of Being a “Breath of Fresh Air”
Let’s talk about that phrase. “You’re a breath of fresh air.” It’s supposed to be a compliment — and in the 1980s, when Eddie Murphy exploded into mainstream popularity through Saturday Night Live, 48 Hrs., and Beverly Hills Cop, it was revolutionary. Murphy was young, brash, and funny. Not just Black funny in the barbershop sense — but box-office funny in a way that made white America comfortable enough to laugh, buy tickets, and say, “He’s one of the good ones.”
But here’s the problem: once Hollywood finds a mold that sells, it tries to encase you in it. When you’re a “breath of fresh air,” the unspoken expectation is that you’ll stay fresh — not heavy. Not serious. Not radical. And definitely not political.
In that moment, Poitier — a man whose entire career was built on navigating the narrow corridor of “dignified Blackness” — essentially told Murphy: Don’t mess up your brand by being too Black, too bold, or too dramatic.
And if we’re being honest, that brand protectionism didn’t start or end with Eddie.
The Fine Print of Black Stardom
We’ve seen this narrative before.
When comedian Kevin Hart expressed interest in doing more dramatic work, the response was lukewarm — as if the idea of him stepping out of the “funny Black man” role was somehow disruptive. Meanwhile, Will Smith made a name for himself playing charming, confident leads, but had to bleed on screen (Ali, The Pursuit of Happyness, King Richard) to be considered Oscar-worthy.
And don’t forget that Jordan Peele, once just “the Key from Key & Peele,” had to redefine horror just to be taken seriously behind the camera. People were confused when the sketch guy made Get Out. And then when it won an Oscar? They were shocked. Why? Because comedy is often seen as lesser — even when it’s laced with genius.
There’s always been a tension in Black artistry between entertaining and educating, between being accepted and being authentic. And sometimes, the people discouraging you from coloring outside the lines aren’t your enemies. They’re your heroes.
Sidney, Spike, and the Timing of Revolution
To be fair, Sidney Poitier wasn’t just gatekeeping for sport. He was protecting Eddie from a system he’d navigated with cautious dignity. Poitier had been the first — the first Black man to win an Oscar, the first to kiss a white woman on screen, the first to carry a movie without a white co-lead. He knew how easily Hollywood could turn on you.
But here’s the twist: even if Norman Jewison had made Malcolm X with Eddie Murphy in the Alex Haley role, it’s difficult to imagine that version having the same radical, Black-first impact that Spike Lee’s 1992 film delivered. Lee wasn’t just a director; he was a steward of the legacy. He insisted on Denzel. He insisted on nuance. He insisted on not being palatable.
And Denzel? He delivered a performance so searing, it still gives goosebumps. He became Malcolm in a way that transcended biopic tropes. So maybe in the end, everything worked out the way it was meant to.
But that doesn’t mean Eddie couldn’t have done it. It just means he didn’t get the chance to try.
The Cost of “Stay In Your Lane” Advice
The bigger lesson here isn’t just about Murphy, Poitier, or Malcolm X. It’s about how we limit each other. How the entertainment industry — and society at large — decides who gets to evolve. Who gets to be complex. Who gets to fail?
Telling someone “you’re not Denzel” might seem harmless, but it reinforces a hierarchy of worthiness. It assumes there’s only one kind of Black excellence that gets to be taken seriously — the stoic, respectable, dramatic kind.
But Eddie Murphy changed the game in his own right. He eventually proved his dramatic chops in Dreamgirls, earning an Oscar nomination. He played heartbreak and joy in Dolemite Is My Name. And even when he’s not chasing statues, his influence is stamped on everything from Coming 2 America to Shrek. (Donkey was literally the emotional core of that franchise — don’t @ me.)
Final Thought: Let Black Artists Evolve
In the end, the real takeaway here isn’t about whether Eddie should’ve played Alex Haley or whether Sidney was wrong to advise caution. It’s this:
Let Black artists evolve. Let them be soft. Let them be radical. Let them try things. Let them fail. Let them fumble. Let them f— with that.
Because it’s only when we allow our creatives to step into uncharted territory that true innovation happens.
Eddie Murphy didn’t play a role in Malcolm X. But he played a major role in changing what was possible. And that? That matters just as much.
Photo by Matthew Alexander on Unsplash
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