How is it that two of the most brilliant, perceptive films about discrimination in cinema history both seem to attack, in a distinctly pejorative way and despite their vital criticisms of intolerance, the same Asian ethnicity?

I’m referring to Get Out (2017) and Silence (2016), directed by Jordan Peele and Martin Scorsese, respectively—pictures that I feel are two of the best of this or any other decade when it comes to condemnations of prejudice. And yet, these movies fall into the same trap: that of painting other populations with an all-too-broad brush. It’s an issue that isn’t solely relegated to this duo; there are celluloid precedents, including, for example, Auntie Mame (1958), whose anti-Babbitty message is muted by its caricatured depictions of the titular protagonist’s Japanese servant Ito and Irish attendant Norah. But Get Out and Silence are even more problematic in that the people they denigrate are not represented as being on the side of the good guys. In fact, the conveyance is the opposite.

Not a good look for a couple of films that make it a point to attack generalizations based on appearances.

The nationality being slammed in these two movies, by the way, is that of the Japanese. In Silence, this is part and parcel of the picture’s framework, as most of the action takes place in Japan in the 17^th century, where two Portuguese Jesuit priests, played by Andrew Garfield and Adam Driver, are seeking their former colleague, who is said to have renounced his faith, while ministering to Japanese Christians. Based on the novel by Shusaku Endo, Silence shows in horrific detail the persecution Japanese Christians faced from the authorities during this period; the tortures they endure, which include being burned alive, as well as crucified in the ocean while waves slowly drown them, are graphically depicted onscreen and are completely necessary, from a contextual standpoint, to depict cinematically, owing in part to the dichotomy this movie references with regard to those who are willing to die for their beliefs and those who aren’t. Are people who are unwilling to become martyrs for their religion less worthy than those who do, and is the fundamental nature and quality of their faith any more limited than that of the murdered? This is a fascinating, humanistic idea, and it informs the entire flick, from the behavior of the character Kichijiro, a Japanese Christian who survives by repeatedly committing apostasy before repenting and seeking confession, to the trials of protagonist Rodrigues, the driven priest played by Garfield who loves Jesus but questions his own creed when faced with the violence levied against the individuals he is trying to help.

Yet there’s a major fault with the screenplay, and that is the length of time it takes to reveal exactly why the authorities were seeking to eradicate Christians in Japan, where Shintoism and, later, Buddhism had become the dominant religions. Without a doubt, this does not in any way legitimize the persecution and violence directed at Japanese Christians during this or any other time; the government mandated the torture and murder of innocent human beings, and, as with any such activity in history, there is no justification for this behavior. Not even the pace and advance of history can minimize the evils perpetuated during this era. Folks were killed because of their religion. One cannot—and never should—condone that.

The authorities’ motivation, however, was one that is rare, if not unique, in history, as it was in part a reaction against what it perceived to be the potential threat of Western imperialism and the religious doctrines that often accompanied it. The Tokugawa shogunate, in power at the time, mostly shut itself off from the European world, and only emerged from its cocoon when U.S. Admiral Matthew C. Perry arrived in the 19^th century to force the country’s hand. As such, it remained uncolonized by Western powers, and avoided the fate many other non-European nations, including China, experienced.

When Silence eventually gets to this explanation, we, as the viewers, are already disgusted by the villainous assaults on the Japanese Christians, who are subjected to the most sadistic tortures if they don’t show their contempt for their religion by performing acts such as stepping on images of Christ. The lead baddies in this vein are the inquisitor Inoue, expertly played by Issei Ogata, and the sly translator (Tadanobu Asano), both of whom seek to convince Rodrigues of the futility of their machinations. Indeed, there is even a reference in the picture that Christianity cannot survive in the “swamp” that is Japan. That this bit of dialogue is exchanged between two of the primary (and most intriguing) characters in the movie without being dismissed is highly disturbing and suggests that no one—not even the priest who is trying to “save” Japanese Christians—really gives a damn about those needing salvation. They are considered to be lesser entities than the Westerners and are only better than other Japanese because they have accepted Christianity. If the priest Rodrigues can’t respect the individuals he is trying to serve, who can respect them?

Other scenes, though, appear to reinforce the negative image of non-Christian Japanese populations—particularly a segment featuring the captured Rodrigues being carted through a town suffering abuse, including at least one thrown object, from the angry populace. Whether this kind of attitude occurred historically is moot. In the world of filmmaking, if you show a villager chucking something at a prisoner, there’s no black or white in the insinuation. Either the prisoner is bad and the villager is good … or vice versa. Gray areas don’t exist.

Meanwhile, Get Out takes a different, yet no less distressing tack … and one that also brings up the idea of “cocoons.” Like Silence, Get Out offers a layered, complex viewpoint that at once criticizes attitudes about African Americans yet also brings up questions about what it means to be black, and whether the perpetuation of assumptions informed by stereotypes of behaviors, modes of dress and manners of speech remains grounded in the cultural fundament, albeit in a different form from yesteryear. The picture, which straddles the science-fiction and horror domains, posits a superficially respectable, affluent white community that kidnaps African American men and women to transfer the older Caucasian infiltrators’ souls and minds into their younger targets’ stronger, more viable bodies. It’s a wild idea that brings up remembrances of paranoid-pics past, such as The Stepford Wives (1975) and the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956), while also pointing to conspiracy-focused flicks such as The Manchurian Candidate (1962). In Get Out, the proceedings start out in an amicable fashion, as professional photographer Chris (sharply played by Daniel Kaluuya), who is black, and his girlfriend Rose (again, a strong performance, this time by Allison Williams), who is white, visit the latter individual’s parents at their fancy house in upstate New York. But Peele, who also wrote the script, supplies some fascinating observations relating to a perceived need by many non-minority individuals to communicate issues that they believe would be of interest to colleagues, acquaintances and potential family members solely because of their target audiences’ ethnicity. As such, Chris gets bombarded with commentary from Rose’s father about President Obama and is shown a photo of a relative who raced with Jesse Owens. This is a heady idea that indicates a focus on what may be deemed to be even positive subjects relating to a person’s race can be offensive, as it demonstrates an inability to engage in dialogue that does not zero in on someone’s heritage, thereby resulting in an uncomfortable gesture that aims at being positive yet ends up being naïve. The scenario is broadened when Chris, during a party held by Rose’s parents, is deluged with polite but perturbing inquiries from attendees relating to his color and supposedly concomitant culture. To our protagonist, this goes beyond bemusing. It’s bizarre, and he doesn’t want any part of it. As viewers, we tend to agree with him.

Except on one point, which ends up being the film’s biggest flaw. Among the partygoers is a man named Hiroki Tanaka (Yasuhiko Oyama), who asks Chris a question about his race. “Hiroki Tanaka” is a Japanese name, and Oyama is of Japanese heritage. This character is the only Asian one in this scene, and that makes it problematic. He’s one of the villains seeking to use the bodies of African Americans as walking, talking cocoons while replacing their minds with his and those who subscribe to his way of thinking. In other words, he’s grouped with the white folks. This results in what seems to be the implication that Japanese people are just as racist as Caucasians. Just because of this one guy.

My issue with this is one of balance. If you present a villain in a film with a recognizable ethnicity, the proverbial can of worms could spill all over the place and disseminate a misleading, irresponsible idea, however inadvertent it may be, that all such individuals with this background are bad. I’ve written about this before in the case of a character in The Terminator (1984) with a Jewish surname, yet this issue is pretty darn pervasive in Hollywood. Consider the great black actor James Earl Jones’ appearance as the wicked sorcerer Thulsa Doom in Conan the Barbarian (1982), or African-American thespian Mel Johnson Jr.’s duplicity as the mutant Benny in Total Recall (1990). Prominent evildoer portrayals, no good-guy opponents of the same color. Have that in a motion picture, and the fulcrum is pushed in one direction. One is forced to ask the question “why?” when such casting choices are made. Why must the baddie be black when no heroes are as well? What are we saying? And when Thulsa Doom and Benny meet their respective demises, what does that signify? Yes, we’re cheering because they’re nasties. But aren’t such cheers coupled with more than a little distress? We can’t, in any way, overlook matters of hue when it comes to actors and actresses, especially when they manifest themselves in the sole representation of a particular ideology.

And that’s what has happened in Get Out with the Tanaka character. Why, in this sea of white people, must there be one fellow who very obviously is labeled as Japanese and even more obviously has no positive counterpart? Is the director lumping all of these folks together, with the intimation that both of these groups think alike … and malevolently, to boot? There’s no reason why the cinema should be devoid of celluloid meanies written with a specific race in mind. This is, however, good reason why these characters shouldn’t be isolated in their ethnicity.

Many people who watch movies get heavily involved in them. If the flicks are good, that’s all the more reason to immerse oneself in such activities. Unfortunately, the connection between the silver screen and reality may be blurred for some, as evidenced by the experiences of performers such as Andy Robinson, who was subjected to troubling communications from moviegoers who watched his brilliant portrayal of vile serial killer Scorpio in Dirty Harry (1971) and thought it all too accurate. True, most people appear to be able to differentiate between celluloid and actual day-to-day life. But there are some who don’t. So when a work of art shows up that appears to depict a certain nationality in a negative way while eschewing an opposing perspective, it could, conceivably, have significant repercussions. Men and women of certain races, faiths, orientations, genders, and abilities could be subject to discrimination by those who draw their opinions from misguided associations formulated through onscreen illustrations. Prejudice could increase. Innocent people could be targeted via hate speech or, God forbid, even worse.

That’s why filmmakers have a responsibility to provide an equilibrium in their projects. Get Out and Silence, though they are textured, complicated pictures, don’t appear to offer such a quality in their depictions of Japanese individuals. For that reason, they call attention to a substantial dilemma and don’t furnish crucial solutions. As good as these flicks are, they flop face-down from this ethical standpoint … despite their otherwise commendable aims to right historical wrongs and highlight injustice in other areas. This discrepancy is most unsettling—and truly strange, as it emanates from two movie-loving mavens: Scorsese, who counts Japanese director Kenji Mizoguchi’s Ugetsu (1953) as one of his favorite bits of cinema; and Peele, whose celluloid influences reportedly include Rosemary’s Baby (1968) … which, perhaps coincidentally, features a scene at the end with an Asian (one may assume Japanese, given the derogatory stereotypes of the time connecting that ethnicity with often using cameras) man taking photos of the female protagonist’s just-born devil progeny.

Do some wrongs deserve a right? Absolutely. Should Hollywood rectify this now? No question.

Because letting it go would be a disservice not only to people with Japanese ancestry, but also to the filmgoing public overall. For once one group is put in the spotlight, there’s no telling what other group might be wrongfully implicated with that in the future.

We can’t meet such judgments with silence. We can, however, tell them to get out.

And the sooner we start, the better.