Ruth and Boaz Review Modern Faith, Music, and Feminist Rebirth

Netflix’s latest drama Ruth & Boaz takes a bold swing at reimagining one of the Bible’s most enduring tales. This time, it’s filtered through modern music, female empowerment, and the messy process of rediscovering faith.

Directed by Alanna Brown, the film cares less about ancient lineage and more about emotional survival, grief, and tangled bonds between women. It dares to ask what loyalty looks like in a world obsessed with fame and the music industry’s relentless grind.

The inspiration comes from the biblical Book of Ruth, but this version trades wheat fields for recording studios and vineyard rows. That ancient story gets a 21st-century beat.

The Modern Twist on an Ancient Story

At its core, Ruth & Boaz is about devotion — not romance, but fierce loyalty between two women bound by loss. Serayah McNeill plays Ruth Moably, an ambitious Atlanta musician whose career tanks after she refuses to sell out her artistry.

She walks from a lucrative record deal with real-life producer Jermaine Dupri, and things spiral. Her manager, Syrus Jordan (James Lee Thomas), reacts with shocking violence, forcing Ruth to run for her life.

Ruth ends up seeking shelter with Naomi Evans, played by the legendary Phylicia Rashad. In the original story, Ruth’s loyalty to her mother-in-law is all about faith and perseverance.

Brown’s film keeps that thread but ditches the marriage and inheritance stuff. Instead, it’s a crisis of conscience and survival in the modern world.

What forms is a mother-daughter bond, built on shared grief and fear, not blood or duty. They’re both running from something, and somehow, they start to rebuild each other.

Faith, Family, and Feminism

Brown’s direction flips the biblical script. The women aren’t just props for some man’s legacy — they’re the story’s heart and backbone.

Naomi, shattered by the murders of her husband and son, hides out in her rundown family home in Pegram, Tennessee. Ruth, wracked with guilt and fear, follows her there, even though she really doesn’t have to.

Their relationship becomes a meditation on loss and finding meaning in chaos. The film’s core is watching these two women slowly piece themselves back together — one clinging to faith, the other fighting to reclaim her voice.

It’s almost rebellious, honestly. The film questions whether women really need to exist in service to men or tradition. Instead, it’s about resilience and spiritual awakening — not a sermon, more like a survival anthem.

When the Music Stops: The Industry’s Dark Side

One thing that really sticks is how the film puts faith and fame side by side. Ruth’s decision to turn down Jermaine Dupri isn’t just about her career — it’s her drawing a moral line.

She won’t perform songs that don’t ring true, echoing the struggles of real artists pushed to conform. The industry’s manipulations are on full display here.

Syrus, her manager, becomes the face of that corruption. His violence — the murders of Ruth’s boyfriend and his father — is almost too much to believe, but maybe that’s the point.

It works as a metaphor for the brutal power games happening backstage in music. The message lands: if your success is built on exploitation, is it really success?

From Atlanta to Pegram: A Shift in Tone

When Ruth and Naomi escape to Tennessee, the movie shifts gears — suddenly it’s small-town drama, part healing journey. Atlanta’s nightlife fades into Pegram’s quiet vineyards, and it feels like a spiritual cleanse.

That’s where Ruth meets Bo Azra (Tyler Lepley), the film’s Boaz — a charming vineyard owner who seems to offer salvation. But is his kindness genuine, or just another form of control?

Boaz’s relationship with Ruth echoes the same transactional vibe she had with Syrus, just dressed up in romance. He gives her a job, a car, fixes her house, and even introduces her to Babyface.

The parallels are obvious, and totally intentional. Both men use their power to shape Ruth’s path. The tone is different, but the substance? Maybe not so much.

It makes you wonder: can generosity ever be free from power?

Between Faith and Fame: The Film’s Central Conflict

This film thrives in contradiction. It’s a love story, but it’s also poking holes in love stories.

It’s about faith, but never gets preachy. Sure, there are some Hallmark romance tropes — the handsome, successful guy swooping in — but the film doesn’t let you get too comfortable with that.

Serayah and Lepley have chemistry, no doubt. But the real weight comes from Ruth’s internal struggle, not her relationships.

Her journey from aspiring rapper to spiritual seeker mirrors the biblical Ruth’s transformation. But here, redemption doesn’t come from marriage or motherhood.

She finds it in self-discovery and forgiveness. The takeaway? Salvation isn’t about wealth, romance, or fame — it’s about reclaiming your voice and self-worth.

Performances That Anchor the Story

Serayah McNeill is fantastic — she brings a vulnerability and quiet strength that feels real. Her Ruth is layered and deeply human.

Phylicia Rashad, as always, brings weight to every scene. Her Naomi is both broken and stubborn, her faith battered but not gone.

Together, they create something raw and believable. Tyler Lepley’s Boaz is the perfect counterpoint — charming, maybe manipulative, never quite letting you figure him out.

He keeps you guessing, just like the film keeps questioning what generosity and love really mean. Cameos from Jermaine Dupri and Babyface add a fun dash of reality, grounding the story in pop culture.

Critiquing the Contradictions

Ruth & Boaz swings big, but it’s not perfect. Sometimes the plot stretches credibility — Syrus’s cartoonish villainy, Ruth not calling the cops — it’ll make you raise an eyebrow.

These leaps can yank you out of the moment. But honestly, Brown seems more interested in allegory than strict realism.

The film works as a modern parable, bending logic to serve emotional truth. The critique of wealth and power is sharp, even if it wobbles now and then.

The contrast between two men — one violent, one generous — both trying to control Ruth’s future, is sly commentary. Whether it’s fear or kindness, both are about control.

Ruth’s final act of defiance is simple: she decides to define her own worth. And maybe that’s the real heart of the story.

The Takeaway

At 1 hour and 33 minutes, Ruth & Boaz is a compact, emotionally charged exploration of loyalty, faith, and female empowerment.

It’s not perfect — but honestly, it doesn’t have to be. What it offers is more of a conversation than a lecture: about how we love, forgive, and try to reclaim our voices in a world that keeps trying to hush them.

For all its melodrama, the film’s heart is in the right place. It’s a story about women showing up for each other when everything else falls apart.

Sometimes, there’s a little grace to be found in the ruins.

Streaming now on Netflix, Ruth & Boaz might catch you off guard. It’s not just a retelling of a biblical story — it’s a reimagining of what faith and loyalty could look like right now.

And in a world obsessed with fame, maybe the most radical thing is just staying true to yourself.