At a screening of ‘In Jackson Heights,’ the Wiseman documentary about a neighborhood known for being the most diverse on the planet, I’m seated behind a large group of viewers, an extended family of southeast Asian background. The group is voluble, excited about the screening, and as the lights dim they’re still chatting amongst themselves and taking their seats. An older Caucasian man sitting two seats away in my row speaks up: ‘I hope you’re not planning to speak through the film.’ His tone is strident and laced with condescension. The matron of the family turns around, offended. ‘No we are not, thank you very much!’ To my shock, the old man then demands, ‘Are you Indian?’ This query is met with stunned silence. ‘Because,’ he continues, his voice loud enough for all around to hear, ‘I used to live in India. For two years. I know how you people watch films. Talking through the whole thing.’ The woman murmurs something in response, but I can’t make it out. The man then repeats his statement, emphasizing the amount of time he spent in India (as if this would ensure that his comments appear ‘cultured’ rather than blatantly racist). The family seems shaken, but after the film begins the tension eases, and people seem to become absorbed in the documentary’s depiction of daily life in Jackson Heights. At some point during the film I notice that a young woman (the daughter?) and her friend who are sitting directly in front of me, have pulled out their phones and are showing each other images. Normally I would ask them to turn off their phones, but I realize that I’ve been chastened by my neighbor’s rude outburst, that any further attempt to enforce some movie-going code of conduct on this sprawling, lively family will put me in league with the cranky xenophobe. So I let it go, and after a while it stops bothering me.