Chris Rock is right – Hollywood has a race problem. Photo: Kevin Winter/Getty Images for BET
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Why Hollywood needs to listen to Chris Rock about its race problems

On screen and off, Hollywood is terrible at giving opportunities to anyone who isn’t white, and one of the US’s biggest stars is calling them out on it.

In a scathing editorial in the Hollywood Reporter, Chris Rock has confronted some issues that though obvious, are being blatantly ignored. He quite rightly points out that Hollywood is an exclusive, white industry that is terrible at giving opportunities to black and Latino people other than as the janitor. You only have to open your eyes to see this, but nobody, whether it be studio executives, producers, directors, other actors or critics, has been proactive in changing things. It’s OK to say it – Hollywood doesn’t care about black people.

In Rock’s piece, he references a scene that was cut out of his upcoming film Top Five. The line goes “I'm the only black agent here. They never invite me to anything, and these people are liberals. This isn't the Klan.” It cuts to the heart of the bullshit that is liberalism – they don’t think they’re racist just because they don’t wear white hoods and call themselves “Grand Wizard”. You can count on one hand the number of black actors who are currently genuine stars in Hollywood: Denzel Washington, Will Smith and Samuel L Jackson. Halle Berry got relegated to television, Eddie Murphy’s career imploded, Jamie Foxx isn’t quite “it”, Tyler Perry’s an embarrassment and the likes of Idris Elba, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Kerry Washington, Don Cheadle and Anthony Mackie are mostly kept to supporting roles which wouldn’t be the case if they were white.

As Rock states, you can go for weeks without seeing a significant black character on screen. Change doesn’t happen on its own – it has to be pushed and it certainly doesn’t happen overnight. I don’t know what the solution is or even if there is one aside from making it mandatory for you to have a certain amount of speaking roles for minorities in films. But I do know that nobody apart from racists would care if Batman was played by Idris Elba or if Seth Rogen’s loveable sidekick was Kevin Hart, even though black actors never even get considered for these roles. Every man and woman in the western hemisphere was under consideration for the two leading roles in Fifty Shades of Grey, except for black actors and actresses. What would be the difference if Christian Grey was black? There wouldn’t be one. What they’re saying is that people don’t find black people sexy, but as Rock puts it: “More women want to fuck Tyrese than Jamie Dornan, and it’s not even close. It’s not a contest. Even Jamie would go, ‘OK, you got it’.” It’s so absurd it’s almost impossible to comprehend.

The key decision-makers in Hollywood are all white: every studio head is white, all the significant producers are white. Only Will Packer, responsible for things like Think Like a Man, Ride Along, No Good Deed and Takers is a notable black producer working on mainstream projects. All black talent needs is an opportunity and it’s not really getting one. Steve McQueen gave Chiwetel Ejiofor the leading role in 12 Years a Slave, which resulted in one of the best performances I’ve ever seen. Ejiofor  has been waiting his entire career for a leading role and he proved all those people wrong who thought he “didn’t quite fit the part”, and would do so again if he ever gets another one.

Chris Rock, probably the leading stand-up comedian of the last twenty years and second only to Richard Pryor at his craft, is right. Nobody wants to admit it, but he is. Race has always been integral to his stand-up act but he hasn’t attacked the medium he works in quite like he did in this editorial.  An optimist would suggest that because such a high-profile figure has attacked the industry, change will follow, but I’m not an optimist and the fact is Hollywood is a white industry that doesn’t even pretend to care about black people. Of course, the irony is that Hollywood’s ignorance and discrimination is costing them millions – they’re alienating a massive demographic that could have helped out the worst US box-office in over a decade. You listen to Chris Rock and you’ll usually be in hysterics, but for once, he is being entirely serious. He’s speaking the truth that Hollywood doesn’t want to hear.

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The lessons of Finding Dory are commendable, but why make a children's film so complicated?

Pixar's latest animation, a sequel to Finding Nemo, gives forgetful fish Dory a lead. Plus: Jason Bourne.

Amnesia is a concern for the heroes of two blockbuster sequels – the Pixar animation Finding Dory and the espionage thriller Jason Bourne. The condition extends to the film-makers, who have forgotten much of what made the original movies so appealing. In fairness, the 2003 Finding Nemo lacked the emotional complexity of top-drawer Pixar. But its story of an anxious clownfish combing the ocean for his lost son served as a neat rebuke to worrywart parents, and it featured one enduring character: the Pacific blue tang Dory. Her short-term memory loss left her in a state of carefree enchantment perfectly expressed by Ellen DeGeneres, whose voice calls to mind a rubber ball thrilled afresh by each new bounce.

Now Dory has a movie of her own, in which she goes in search of the parents from whom she was estranged as an infant. Many of the previous picture’s fish chip in to help, but the script’s argument for inclusivity and diversity is made most persuasively by Dory’s new allies. Hank is a tomato-red octopus who can’t bear to be touched, while Becky, a frizz-haired loon, and Gerald, a bullied sea lion, have learning difficulties that leave them vulnerable to mockery by their fellow creatures. Heroism originates here with the apparently disadvantaged, whose differences ultimately prove to be no sort of disadvantage at all.

The message is commendable, so it’s unfortunate that the execution is so complicated. Incident is stacked upon incident, most clumsily during a final half-hour in which the sea creatures take chaotically to the roads. When there are lulls in the action, these are filled too often by homilies and life lessons that demand no spelling out.

Quality control remains high in the area of animation. From the velvety anemone beneath a lattice of rippling sunlight to the pink-tinted ocean surface at dusk, it is clear that nature needs to up its game to keep ahead of Pixar. The biggest gasps should be reserved for Hank’s extraordinary chameleonic powers, which allow him to blend into a laboratory wall and to mimic a potted plant or a handrail. Impersonating a baby in its stroller, he uses his Mr Tickle arms to propel himself at high speed like a wheelchair-basketball champ tearing up the court. In a film that largely plays it safe, Hank brings a jolt of anarchic danger.

The breakneck editing and neck-breaking violence of the Bourne series, about a brainwashed CIA killing machine who gradually recovers his memory and goes rogue, has been the biggest influence on action cinema since the advent of the car chase. There have been only three instalments until now (four if you count the spin-off The Bourne Legacy) but their style is so ubiquitous it feels as if there’s one Bourne every minute. The latest outing reunites two leading players who swore they were done with the franchise: the actor Matt Damon, looking as bulky and implacable as a tank, and Paul Greengrass, the British director who whipped up a storm in films two and three but consigns it to a teacup this time around.

Rarely has such a fast-paced film felt so weary and resigned. Christopher Rouse’s screenplay throws into the usual paranoid, dystopian, NSA-fearing mix a Zuckerberg-style social media guru (Riz Ahmed) in cahoots with the craggy CIA overlord (Tommy Lee Jones) hunting Bourne. There is also a bright CIA underling (Alicia Vikander) experiencing vague pangs of conscience from her operations hub where po-faced automatons tap endlessly on keyboards; it’s like a Kraftwerk gig without the tunes.

The film makes gestures towards political topicality. But whether it’s riots in Greece or the ongoing tension between security and privacy, everything is reduced to the level of window dressing while Bourne crashes motorbikes, plummets from the tops of buildings and doles out upper cuts as though he were passing around Tic Tacs.

Just once it would be nice to have some character detail or a line of dialogue that went beyond “Suspect turning left”, or the series catchphrase: “You don’t have any idea who you’re dealing with!” Bourne himself is a dead end, dramatically speaking; he has recovered his memory now but his personality and inner conflict have been wiped clean. When he isn’t fighting, he has nothing to do except go woozy with flashbacks and generally outfox the CIA. He should try hiding in the voluminous bags beneath Tommy Lee Jones’s eyes – they’d never find him there.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue