A rotating guest column in which writers reexamine critically unacclaimed works of art
We didn’t often go to the movies as a whole family, but in 2002 we all saw Signs. This was back when we could be convinced to hit the theater en masse simply because a guy named Manoj—better known as “M. Night”—was making it big in Hollywood. This was a post-9/11, pre-representation time, before streaming services could serve us bespoke categories like “supernatural tearjerker Indian American mockumentaries.” I imagine that Indian American families like ours no longer feel that numinous sense of duty to turn out for films made by brown people. Now we can sit back and let a mediocre movie be, flapping in the wind, without pledging tribal fealty. It’s a kind of progress.


