There is a niche yet delightful little conspiracy theory doing the rounds that vampire movies in Hollywood are a “recession indicator”.
The rationale behind this theory is admittedly tenuous, but the impulse behind the indulgence is revealing. Cinema has long been among the most reflective mediums of society—mirroring social shifts and responding to the zeitgeist almost in real-time. And it shapes as much as it is shaped. Indeed, for a hundred years now, the United States’ use of Hollywood has been the global template for the soft power capabilities and cultural capital of cinema.
But soft power also works internally. It reveals how a nation sees itself and the world around it. In that context, for a country like India—reaching for global status—its cultural visibility is part of the broader narrative Americans absorb about global power. And few arenas shape that narrative more powerfully than Hollywood. Vampire movies may or may not signal economic unease, but if you’re looking for a real cultural indicator, keep an eye on desi faces in Hollywood. They track how American culture is negotiating its internal diversity alongside its evolving relationship with India—and the broader region—on the global stage.
Lights, Camera, Representation
South Asian actors in Hollywood are by no means a recent phenomenon. We move fluidly between ‘desi,’ ‘South Asian,’ and ‘Indian’ here as imperfect shorthand—not out of carelessness, but convenience. After all, in the industry’s broad brushstrokes, Indian visibility often stands in for the region, and vice versa.
Historically, however, South Asian faces were few and far between, and often cast in narrow, stereotyped roles. There’s even a not-insignificant correlation between 9/11 and the rise of South Asian representation on screen. But in the past two decades, desi characters have increasingly portrayed everyday Americans in mainstream hits—from Marvel’s Ms Marvel and the Russo brothers’ Citadel, to Mindy Kaling’s Never Have I Ever, the buzzy new rom-com A Nice Indian Boy, and central roles in the Bridgerton series, to name a few.
This shift is deeply linked to Hollywood’s diversity push—driven equally by progressive commitments and market logic. Even an ideological retreat from diversity finds it difficult to resist the commercial pull. This has been further aided by the rise of colour-blind casting—where roles are filled regardless of race, ethnicity or even gender. Originally meant to counter stereotypical casting, it has become a popular artistic choice in historical dramas, flouting strict fidelity to accuracy. Bridgerton is perhaps the most prominent example: even a show on English aristocracy in Regency-era Britain is no longer a justification for an all-white cast.
That said, colour-blind casting has its critics. But the very fact that such debates exist demonstrates how far Hollywood has come since The Simpsons’ Apu. Surface-level diversity is under greater scrutiny now. The focus is shifting from tokenistic inclusion to meaningful representation—real brown characters, rooted in all their identities, not caricatures. The goal is no longer just quantity, but quality.
