In the ever-churning cauldron of social media outrage, where a single ad can ignite debates on race, culture, and commerce, British comedian Lenny Henry has thrown gasoline on an already smoldering controversy.
Henry unleashed a blistering tirade against American Eagle Outfitters, the American retail giant behind a denim campaign that first sparked headlines back in July.
His demand? A sweeping global apology for selecting actress Sydney Sweeney as the face of their “Great Jeans” line, snubbing what he sees as a more deserving Black talent: Cynthia Erivo. But Henry’s rant didn’t stop at casting gripes.
In a moment of unbridled passion, he declared, “Jeans belong to Black culture—they were invented by us, for us.
This is an insult to our legacy!” Those words, meant to rally support, instead detonated a firestorm of backlash that has rippled across the Atlantic, exposing deep fissures in conversations about cultural ownership, celebrity endorsement, and the commodification of history.
To understand the fury, one must rewind to the summer of 2025, when American Eagle’s campaign first burst onto the scene like a pair of distressed skinny jeans—tight, provocative, and impossible to ignore.
Titled “Sydney Sweeney Has Great Jeans,” the ads featured the 28-year-old Euphoria star in a series of sultry vignettes: Sweeney lounging with a puppy, revving a Ford Mustang, or simply strutting in head-to-toe denim that hugged her figure like a second skin.
The tagline was a cheeky pun on “great genes,” with one clip showing Sweeney explaining genetics before panning to her blue eyes and quipping, “My jeans are blue.” It was lighthearted marketing fluff, designed to hawk the brand’s fall collection, including a limited-edition “Sydney Jean” jacket adorned with butterflies symbolizing domestic violence awareness—all proceeds donated to the Crisis Text Line.
At first glance, it seemed harmless. American Eagle, a staple for Gen Z shoppers, was tapping into Sweeney’s massive online following—over 20 million on Instagram alone—and her status as a symbol of unapologetic allure.
The actress, known for her roles in The White Lotus and Anyone But You, embodies a certain all-American sensuality that has long fueled tabloid fodder and conservative fantasies alike. But within hours of the ads dropping on July 29, 2025, the internet erupted.
Critics on the left decried the campaign as a dog whistle for eugenics and white supremacy, arguing that elevating Sweeney’s “great genes” as a blonde, blue-eyed archetype glorified a narrow, Eurocentric beauty standard.
“This isn’t just about jeans; it’s about breeding ideals that echo Nazi propaganda,” one viral TikTok ranted, amassing millions of views. Accusations flew that the brand was peddling “tone-deaf” imagery, with hashtags like #BoycottAmericanEagle and #EugenicsJeans trending worldwide.
The right, predictably, reveled in the chaos.
Outlets like Esquire and conservative podcasters hailed it as a triumph over “woke” overreach, with one commentator quipping, “The Left is looney—Sweeney’s just hot, and the jeans fit great.” Even President Donald Trump weighed in during a press gaggle, reportedly chuckling, “She’s a registered Republican? Oh, now I love her ad! You’d be surprised how many people are Republicans in Hollywood.” Sweeney herself stayed mum initially, later telling GQ in a November 4 interview that the backlash “didn’t affect me” and that she simply loves jeans—”I’m literally in jeans and a T-shirt every day.” American Eagle doubled down, posting on Instagram: “This is and always was about the jeans.
Her jeans. Her story. We’ll continue to celebrate how everyone wears their AE jeans with confidence, their way.” The gambit paid off: Q2 sales surged, stock jumped 38%, and the campaign generated 40 billion impressions.
Enter Lenny Henry, the 66-year-old comedy legend whose career spans decades, from Chef! to Comic Relief. Henry, a vocal advocate for diversity in British media, has long championed Black representation—famously quitting shows when quotas for non-white actors weren’t met.
In a fiery X post (formerly Twitter) that has since garnered over 100,000 views, Henry lambasted American Eagle for what he called a “blatant erasure of Black excellence.” He singled out Cynthia Erivo, the 38-year-old Tony-winning powerhouse fresh off her Emmy-nominated turn as the titular witch in Wicked.
Erivo, with her commanding presence and genre-spanning resume from Harriet to The Color Purple, represents a different kind of icon: one rooted in resilience and cultural depth. “Why Sydney Sweeney, when Cynthia Erivo embodies the grit and grace that built this industry?” Henry wrote.
“This is an insult to Black culture! Demand a global apology—now!”
But it was his follow-up zinger that lit the fuse: “Jeans belong to Black culture. Invented by us, for us—it’s our legacy!” Henry’s claim tapped into a broader narrative of cultural reclamation, echoing recent debates over everything from blues music to barbecue.
He wasn’t entirely off-base in spirit; denim’s modern evolution owes much to Black innovators.
Post-Civil War, African American laborers in the American South adapted sturdy workwear into stylish staples, influencing hip-hop fashion in the 1980s and ’90s through icons like Run-DMC, who wore Adidas tracksuits but popularized baggy jeans as symbols of rebellion.
Today, Black designers like Kerby Jean-Raymond of Pyer Moss continue to subvert denim tropes, turning it into statements on race and labor. Henry’s point, supporters argued, was about visibility: Why not feature Erivo, whose Wicked press tour alone generated buzz with her lost-and-found hat saga, to honor that thread?
Yet, the “final words” that sparked the unexpected firestorm? They weren’t about history—they were about hypocrisy. In the same thread, Henry pivoted to a personal anecdote: “I wore Levi’s in the ’70s, but now? I’d burn them before letting my kids near this whitewashed mess.
Apologize, or we’ll boycott till the cows come home—straight outta Brixton!” What followed was a torrent of mockery, not from the expected quarters, but from Black voices and historians alike.
“Jeans invented by Black people? Bro, Levi Strauss was a Bavarian Jewish immigrant in 1851, patenting riveted pants for Gold Rush miners,” one fact-check tweet exploded, linking to Levi’s archives. Another, from a prominent African American fashion scholar, piled on: “This revisionism hurts more than it helps.
Denim’s story is multicultural—workers of all colors built it.
Claiming ownership erases the shared struggle.” The backlash snowballed: Memes flooded X, with Photoshopped images of Henry in lederhosen captioned, “If jeans are Black, what’s this Bavarian legacy?” Even Erivo, usually above the fray, liked a post distancing herself: “Love and light, but let’s keep it real—jeans for all.”
The firestorm revealed a paradox in the culture wars. On one side, Henry’s defenders—many from the UK comedy circuit and Black Twitter—saw his outburst as righteous fury against Hollywood’s persistent colorism. Sweeney, they noted, fits a cookie-cutter mold of desirability that’s sidelined talents like Erivo for decades.
Data backs this: A 2024 UCLA Hollywood Diversity Report found only 7% of lead roles went to Black actresses in major films, compared to 18% for white women under 30.
“It’s not just ads; it’s systemic,” one supporter tweeted, tying it to Erivo’s own battles, like her tearful surprise visit to her old school amid Wicked’s “woke” backlash. Yet, the claim of “Black invention” crossed a line, alienating allies and handing ammunition to detractors.
Right-wing accounts, already riding high on Sweeney’s “MAGA heart” redemption arc, pounced: “Even their own call out the grift! Jeans for freedom, not fiction.” Posts like one from @TrumpsHurricane, racking up 60,000 views, mocked, “Lenny wants a bald Brit over an American bombshell? Stay in your lane.”
This isn’t Henry’s first brush with controversy. The Birmingham-born star, knighted in 2023 for services to drama and charity, has wielded his platform like a scepter for inclusivity.
His 2022 exit from The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power over diversity quotas drew applause from progressives but eye-rolls from fantasy purists.
Now, at 66, facing semi-retirement after a divorce and health scares, Henry’s jeans jeremiad feels like a last stand—a bid to reclaim relevance in a TikTok-driven world where comedians like Erivo (yes, she’s dabbled in stand-up) steal the spotlight.
But the misstep underscores a broader tension: In the rush to decolonize culture, how far can claims stretch before they snap? Historians point out denim’s true origins: Strauss’s 501s were born in San Francisco, but global migration wove in Italian weaves, French dyes, and yes, Black Southern adaptations during sharecropping eras.
“It’s a tapestry, not a monopoly,” says fashion curator Dr. Elaine Thompson in a recent NPR piece.
As December 2025 dawns, the saga lingers like faded indigo stains. American Eagle reports no plans for a mea culpa, with CEO Jay Schottenstein crediting the “Sweeney effect” for holiday denim spikes.
Sweeney, ever the diplomat, told Variety, “I don’t let other people define who I am—jeans or genes.” Erivo, promoting Wicked’s holiday re-release, sidestepped the drama in a Macy’s parade interview, focusing on her “fiery defiance” shaped by personal loss.
Henry? He’s gone quiet on X, but whispers of a Comic Relief special on “Cultural Threads” suggest he’s not done threading the needle.
In the end, this uproar isn’t just about pants—it’s a microcosm of 2025’s fractured discourse.
Where outrage once built bridges, it now burns them, leaving us to question: Who owns the stories we wear? As Henry himself might quip in quieter times, sometimes the best punchline is the one that unravels the joke.
And in this case, it’s a reminder that even legends can fray at the seams.
