From sax-happy jiggabooing to circumscribing a heart of darkness, cinema – now drawing on post-centennial breath – has pretty much run the racial gauntlet. Which means those colonised by the camerastare can sigh happy for the time being (just as long as all that King Kong reverb doesn’t kill whitie). But the price of peace comes strung up between a rock and a hard place, spinning political strife into Bunuelian hubris: artists fallen to the wayside continue to either shitgrin and bear it, or bite the hand that feeds them – not that anyone on the market end could give a fuck either way.