Thank goodness I’m too old to join the humiliating queue of black actors looking for work these days. I no longer have to fret about black Yankees being cast in roles that African actors can fulfil with ease, grace and, dare one say it, the whiff of authenticity. I’m at peace, way beyond the petty debate.
It was never a debate anyway. It was, and is, a transatlantic monologue, occasionally interrupted by cheeky, indignant, heckling interruptions from down here in the South — out-of-work Bantu would-be actors yelling: “Why can’t we be given a fair crack of our own whip?”
You can fool yourself into believing that the phenomenon first raised its futile head in the 1980s, with the likes of Denzel Washington as Steve Biko in Cry Freedom, my buddy Danny Glover in the title role of the HBO television movie Mandela and as “Boesman” in the dead-in-the-water Boesman and Lena, starring alongside Angela Bassett as typical Korsten coloured trash.
Then there was Sydney Poitier in another Mandela television film (while Morgan Freeman chafes in the wings to play the same role in Anant Singh’s endlessly upcoming epic based on Long Walk to Freedom) and James Earl Jones as the humble Zulu vicar in the remake of Cry the Beloved Country. The roster of heavily sponsored black-on-black exploitation is brought right up to date with Samuel L Jackson in the film adaptation of Antjie Krog’s Country of my Skull, and, of course, Taye Diggs in Zola Maseko’s glossy, hollow Drum.
Then there are the ubiquitous Slovo sisters making Hollywood hay while the sun still shines on the memory of their father Joe’s impeccable struggle credentials, conniving in the casting of a black British actor in Red Dust (written by big sister Gillian) and yet another honky black American in the gritty, gory Umkhonto weSizwe thriller Hot Stuff, written by middle sister Shawn, and co-produced by baby sister Robyn and currently shooting on location on various white-owned farms in the Transvaal.
No, you’d be wrong in thinking that the “our blacks are better actors than your blacks” thing began as recently as that. Poitier and Canada Lee twanged through the native roles in the first version of Cry the Beloved Country in the 1950s. And even before that, Negro extras jumped around pretending to be Zulu warriors in a long line of B movies shot in New Jersey and California way back in the early days of cinema itself in the 1920s and 1930s.
The directors of these films, all white (with the noble exception of Maseko) have always argued, as does Hot Stuff‘s award-winning director, Philip “Rabbit Proof Fence” Noyes, that exclusion of the authentic African article has nothing to do with discrimination against Africans. “I looked at everyone there was to look at all over the world, and simply chose the best actor for the job,” they cry with one, well-rehearsed voice.
“So there. Go make your own movies.” Conveniently forgetting that the cash to make movies, like the Negroes who end up starring in them, is over there, not over here.
While our leadership berates the West at the United Nations for continuing to subsidise their own farmers as a way of blocking the potentially wealth-creating export of African produce into their own countries (Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 metaphor of the American government paying American farmers not to produce alfalfa come to prophetic fulfilment) they make not the slightest suggestion that films shot on the African continent should empower African actors and screenwriters (Maseko was kicked out of that role in favour of an American writer in his own movie).
And, of course, it would be Hollywood sacrilege to expect an African actor to get the chance to even audition for the role of Shaft in Shaft, or for one of Washington’s drearily upright vigilante detectives in any number of American skop, skiet en donder flicks. Imagine the embarrassment of Third World “Angel of mercy” Angelina Jolie or Meryl “I had a farm in Africa” Streep struggling to introduce Seputla Sebogodi at the Oscars — wouldn’t work.
There is something distinctly odd in standing on set with Denzel, cameras rolling as he struggles half-heartedly to emulate Biko’s Eastern Cape accent. The producers are paying him a cool few million US dollars to do his best, no more.
But we cannot exclusively blame our slave-escapee “African- American” brothers and sisters for kicking dust in our faces, laughing over their shoulders as they rush back to Beverley Hills with the loot. I-job-I-job, after all — even over there.
The more flamboyantly political brothers have taken the fight into their own camp on our behalf. A burly cat with a stack of menacing talent gave himself the Ghanaian sounding name of Yaphet Koto, and continues to make a good living playing burly, menacing American gangsters.
Then there was the late, great Adolph Caesar, who cocked a snook at the establishment by naming himself after two of the Western world’s most ruthless dictators, swaggering like a warped, high- yellow mirror of the society that made him, while still showing that, when it came to serious acting, he was up there with the best.
But these are the exceptions that prove the rule. We can surely look forward to nothing better in the future than Will Smith playing Oliver Tambo, or Ice-T cast in the role of Kwame Nkrumah.
All of this is beyond my concern nowadays, however — except when my daughters drag me along to see the latest, big screen travesty of our tough yet dignified history, told the American way. At that point I feel a strange hotness under my collar and an even stranger burning sensation somewhere in the seat of my pants.
That’s when I try to persuade them to switch screens in the Eastgate multiplex and go and have a good old laugh at Shrek instead, for the umpteenth time. At least he’s green, mean and a Glaswegian-accented anti-colonial freedom fighter — with a genuine, ghetto-Negro donkey as a sidekick.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.