The Turner Prize’s goal is to take the pulse of British contemporary art. One shouldn’t judge it harshly if the patient is dying. This year’s edition, sadly, is dull beyond redemption. Questions of identitarian “struggle” are the show’s sole organising principle. They’re so old hat that even the artists approach them with ennui.

Abad’s once vibrant critiques of his native Philippines’ Marcos regime turned into footnotes in a grey decolonisation textbook. In his latest edition, colonial Britain is to blame for Imelda’s handbag fetish. A sustainable claim, perhaps, but Abad offers no visual proof.

Kaur’s Scottish Indian mixed heritage pound shop is not stupid but it is depressing. Her airy display, like life, has space for prayer bells, family snaps, Irn Bru, and even a giant doily. Assimilation is a dirty word, however, and the gallery’s embrace of mass-produced cultures is entirely partial. 

Le Bas’ presentation has a touch of novelty to it. Dressed entirely in fabric, her rooms turn into big tents in an unsubtle nod to some essential Roma sensibility. Content, however, is fleeting in this labyrinth. A video projection barely registers, the figures are like dolls, and the paint markings barely tell a story. Too heavy to be aethereal, too slight to be immersive, this work only manifests in the curator’s text.

Johnson is the safe hand here, but her desire for safety is the paintings’ downfall. Defining “black woman” would be a life-long task for any artist. Today, Johnson’s practice pleases the art world a little too eagerly. Like with a film’s exit music, therefore, the punters have left the gallery before the paintings challenge the Prize’s hackneyed ideology.