Off the Record: Chapters 1–10

Clearly, Black films only receive critical acclaim when they heavily feature Black suffering.

She looks the same as she did when we dropped her off in August: ripped jeans, edges of her box braids tinged purple, her signature bored face.

All I do is go to school, write freelance articles for different magazines, and work at Cora’s Chicken Stand, a dingy restaurant a few minutes away.

Maggie was a little wild, but she was involved, and Alice flourished.

“I couldn’t stop reading. What you were saying, how movies by Black filmmakers are only valued when Black characters are suffering, it really resonated with me. I think I’ve always noticed the really difficult movies winning awards and the fun movies, like Coming to America, being excluded.”

Compliments are awkward because I’m not sure how to react to them. I want to be humble and sweet, but also don’t want to come across like I’m surprised.

She called to compliment me, not to hear me complain about high school. I don’t want her thinking I’m just some petulant teenager.

With Deep Focus partnering with Spotlight Pictures, you’ll have unprecedented access to the cast and crew, but you will be focusing on writing a profile about Marius, who has garnered rave reviews for his performance.

With Deep Focus partnering with Spotlight Pictures, you’ll have unprecedented access to the cast and crew, but you will be focusing on writing a profile about Marius, who has garnered rave reviews for his performance.

Sure, I haven’t told my parents that the grand prize entails hanging out in five different cities with a group of actors and a director and other moviemaking people.

But a press tour is way more impressive than just freelancing.

Mom’s endorsement is better than anything I could ever promise.

It’s light orange, with long, loose pants, flounce cap sleeves, and an open back.

The movie theater looks like the ones used on TV as establishing shots before the camera swings to the red carpets of glitzy premieres.

It’s less flashy in the daytime, but there’s something charming about that, like a face without makeup.

Alice glances up at the sign, squints. “I don’t see anything about incidents or streets.”
“I don’t think they put press screenings on the marquee.”

There’s a table set up in the lobby where people show their press credentials to a bored-looking woman with red hair.

A press conference, with the entire cast and crew up on a dais, while the journalists sit in the audience and ask questions.

Maybe it’s a fluke, like first-movie luck or something, but I don’t think so.

“I know we already emailed about the itinerary and travel plans, but I wanted to make sure you got a physical copy of everything.”

“Well, we didn’t just want her to be a caricature,” Grace Gibbs says, pulling her microphone closer to her mouth.

“All right, folks,” the moderator says, shifting in her seat. She’s a tall lady who has a microphone of her own. “We have three more minutes—enough time for one more question.”

Penny Livingstone quirks her mouth to the side.

“Right. But, um, Peter and his mom are the only Black people living in their town, so I was sort of thinking that maybe that would add more tension, and even if we don’t explicitly see it on-screen, that could add to the way that, um, you know, the actors would play the—”

I’m just there, a tight ball of intricate knots, and I’m not sure how to untie myself.

There are abstract paintings on the walls—people twisted up into odd shapes—and pan flute music playing.

I glance at my recorder, the red light blinking up at me. I’m going to have to relive the awkwardness later when I transcribe this.

There’s something wistful about his face. I need to write a note about that—how expressive his face is.

I was supposed to be going to Brown this year, and now I’m deferred because of awards season.

Deep Focus sent me plane tickets and hotel reservations, but I still have to pay for Alice, since she wasn’t exactly part of the deal. Plus, there’s the issue of food and other expenses. Ms. Jacobson told me to keep receipts from everything so they can reimburse me, but that doesn’t really help right now.

A woman materializes in front of us.

The windows are tall, like we’re in a castle, and adorned with golden curtains that drape down to the floor.

Christina Pak is a super- eccentric designer who’s dressed a lot of people for red carpets and the Met Gala.

It’s harder to breathe, but not because I’m anxious. Christina glances at me with an appraising eye.

“I’d love to see how you look in it. I bet it would complement your skin tone and your eyes just perfectly.”