I’d come for a comedy — just didn’t expect this shape of one. Robert Townsend’s 1987 debut unspools as a string of vignettes and sketches skewering the Black Hollywood experience, shuffling between targets: typecasting, agents chasing an “Eddie Murphy type”, “jive-talk” auditions.
Uneven in the way sketch comedy tends to be, but the hit rate’s high and the satire cuts uncomfortably close — the weaker bits drift, the sharper ones land with a wince. That’s the depressing punchline.
Hollywood Shuffle plays less like a period piece than a diagnosis still pending treatment.