(REVIEW) I was once a big fan of Tyler Perry films and would watch movie after movie made by him. One of the main reasons was that I saw him doing things no one else really was. At the time, most of my experience came from the traditional evangelical faith-based genre, shaped by the Kendrick and Erwin brothers, which focused on family-friendly melodrama.

But Perry’s movies stood out. They featured explicit conversations about God and characters with real faith — paired with humor and a willingness to directly address PG-13 and R-rated topics like abuse and sex.

That blend made it easy to overlook the flaws — bad writing, chaotic plots and meandering narratives that often went nowhere. Over time, those flaws became harder to ignore. As they worsened, I moved on. Meanwhile, the faith-based industry I had grown frustrated with started to get better. Watching “Ruth & Boaz” was a throwback. It reminded me of both the strengths and weaknesses of Perry’s brand of filmmaking: why it resonates with audiences and why it’s disappointing that it doesn’t strive to be better.

Directed by Alanna Brown (“Trees of Peace”) and written by Michael Elliot (“Brown Sugar”) and Cory Tynan (“Play’d”), the film is part of the multi-year, multi-picture first-look deal between DeVon Franklin and Tyler Perry Studios with Netflix. “Ruth & Boaz” is executive produced by Angi Bones, Tony L. Strickland and Bart Lipton.

A modern retelling of the biblical love story of Ruth and Boaz, the film is set in Tennessee. It follows a young woman who flees the Atlanta music scene to care for a widowed elderly woman and, in doing so, finds the love of her life and the mother figure she never had.

“Usually in a love story, the main character meets their love interest within the first 10 minutes,” Brown said. “But in this script, Ruth meets Naomi around that mark instead. The Ruth-Naomi relationship is set up to be just as important as Ruth and Boaz. Ultimately, Naomi leads Ruth to Boaz, so those two arcs are deeply intertwined.”

“Ruth & Boaz” retains the distinctiveness of Perry’s influence. In secular spaces, its overt faith is unusual. Ruth prays that God gets the glory for her music—while her friend jokes that they’d like a little glory too. Ruth leaves the industry because she believes that’s what God is calling her to do. Naomi, angry at God after losing her husband and son, eventually returns to faith when she sees how her story has come full circle. Ruth, Naomi and Boaz all express belief that God orchestrated their connection.

In faith-based spaces, what stands out is how the film embraces less family-friendly material. There’s frank talk about abuse, sex, racism and even murder—though it’s relatively tame for a Perry-produced film. There are also overtly sexy scenes. Early in the film, Ruth performs a provocative dance routine that shocks Naomi. Later, several scenes feature Ruth and Boaz in revealing outfits, clearly designed for visual appeal.

What’s different here isn’t the adult content — faith-based films have gotten bolder in recent years. Last year’s “The Blind,” for example, dealt with serious themes. But in that film, the dark material was treated as serious sin — something to be redeemed. In “Ruth & Boaz,” the “sin” is often just part of the entertainment. There’s a villain to fight because that’s fun. There’s a scene of Boaz shirtless while women ogle him — because that’s fun.

That’s not a criticism in itself. I like action movies and romances — they’re supposed to be entertaining. Many faith-based films shy away from fun for fear of being unholy, and the result is often dull. “Ruth & Boaz” avoids that trap. Still, it occasionally veers into exploitation. Ruth’s provocative opening number feels designed to titillate the audience—not just shock Naomi. Compare that to “The Chosen,” where Salome’s dance is provocative only to Herod, not the viewer.

This tension, between faith and spectacle, is both the film’s strength and its weakness. The movie wants to entertain, and it leans hard into well-worn tropes: the wounded girl who needs to learn to love again, the “too-good-to-be-true man,” the hidden secret that threatens the relationship, the crisis of faith.

When the tropes are well executed, the movie works. When they’re not, it feels like it’s checking boxes. Take Ruth’s motivations, for example. Early on, she resists Boaz’s attention because she’s dealt with men who use gifts to manipulate her. But Boaz wins her over … by giving her gifts. And Ruth responds that no one’s ever treated her this well before. Has he really demonstrated that he’s different?

Then the movie shifts the conflict: now Ruth says she has trust issues because she grew up without her parents and fears that people close to her get hurt. But we’re only shown one example — her last boyfriend, who got caught up with a music mogul hunting her down. And when the film finally addresses that storyline, it wraps up almost instantly. The effect is that Ruth’s reasons for pushing Boaz away feel more like convenient obstacles than a natural emotional journey.

Another problem is the heavy use of voice-over narration. The film has genuinely touching moments — Ruth and Naomi’s evolving relationship, their prayers, Naomi removing her cross necklace in a moment of heartbreak. But instead of letting these scenes speak for themselves, the narration constantly tells us what to think and feel. Combine that with on-the-nose dialogue, and it starts to feel like the film doesn’t trust its audience to pick up on emotional cues.

As a modern adaptation of the Bible story, the film is mixed. It captures the spirit of the relationship between Ruth and Naomi and the idea of Boaz as an answer to prayer. But the third act gets messy.

The original story relies heavily on ancient Jewish customs. Ruth and Boaz can’t marry right away because there’s a closer relative who has the first right. The stakes come from specific legal and cultural details.

Modernizing that story is tough. I remember an audio commentary from the “VeggieTales” version of Ruth and Boaz, where the creators said the hardest part was adapting those cultural elements for a young audience.

“Ruth & Boaz” sidesteps the issue by replacing the biblical conflict with something entirely different: a mobster music mogul destroys Boaz’s winery and sets up a climactic shootout involving all three leads. The villain also serves as a reason Ruth hesitates to get close to people — because she’s afraid they’ll be hurt by him.

It’s functional, and it allows for a dramatic ending. But it doesn’t quite feel earned. It’s the kind of generic conflict you’d expect from a made-for-TV thriller rather than a story rooted in timeless spiritual themes. Still, there’s potential here. Franklin and Perry’s partnership with Netflix aims to bring more faith-based content into the mainstream. That’s a worthy goal. “Ruth & Boaz” shows a real commitment to representing faith in a direct and honest way, while also trying to entertain a broad audience.

If future films from this partnership can build on that vision — tightening scripts, refining emotional arcs, and being thoughtful about tone — they could produce something truly meaningful. “Ruth & Boaz” doesn’t quite get there, but it’s a bold, interesting step in that direction.