The film dwells in those uncomfortable grey areas. Just as the gunmen aren’t made out to be caricature Bad Guys, neither are the affluent guests of the hotel saints. There’s a distinct vibe of the sinking Titanic in the air as privilege and entitlement dominate even in the thick of the shooting. The class divides that govern this vestige of colonialism don’t magically disappear once the violence takes hold, nor does the casual racism that groups together all people with brown skin as “suspect.” While placing a phone call to her mother, Zahra (who is Muslim) gets accosted by a posh British lady convinced she’s feeding information to the gunmen. That same woman later tells the staff that Arjun’s turban makes her nervous, prompting him to have to explain his native culture to a tourist, even as they both fear for their lives. (It’s a moment that would have felt cringe-worthy in a film single-handedly focused on Western victims, but Patel sells it with a quiet but passionate performance.)