Minority-Owned Report (2002)

Directed by Stephon Spillburgh

High ceilings. A futuristic-looking kitchen timer—adorned with pulsating blue lights—ticks away on a desk: there are about 8 minutes left. A white woman’s voice pierces through the space:

“So, now that you’ve seen the storyboards. There’s one last thing I wanted you to know we’re thinking about.”
“Go for it.”
“There’s a scene I’m thinking about from Minority Report that I really wanna steal to use for our film. Well, really, it’s a shot.”
“Mmhmm.”

Inside an online square on a computer screen is Mallory, seen only from the shoulders up. She’s a chiseled white woman in her late 40s wearing sunglasses and a thin scarf around her neck. She speaks with her brow permanently furrowed:

“The future-seeing girl—I forget her name, but she’s played by Samantha Morton—but it’s the scene where she’s by the window. And then it moves to the close up of her face, her eyes roll back into her head and BOOM: she has a vision. She recites the future his dead son would have had. And there’s like all this bright white light surrounding her while she talks.”
“Okay. I see.”

We can hear the sound of a pen scribbling into paper.

“You know the scene I’m talking about?”
“Of course. That’s one of my favorites.”
“I want to do that, I want that feeling. Just a brooding kind of moral grey area kind of vibe to the scene. TONS of light. She’s angelic but it’s not exactly heavenly. You know what I’m saying?”
“I do. I think I do. Lemme just get all this down.”

This introduces us to Allan, 38, sitting in the cavernous apartment and writing furiously into a yellow legal pad with a ballpoint pen. He wears a Kangol to the back, some metallic blue eyeglasses, a simple white t-shirt, down to a pair of plaid slacks. He crosses them to gain a better leverage surface for the notepad. He stops to clarify something:

“And so is the goal to have that same amount of harsh light coming through onto…um—”
“Neshia.”
“Neshia. Right… coming through onto Neshia’s face?”
“Yes, we’re going for the same exact thing pretty much. Just swap out our actor for that one. I’m talking to Sven about doing these overexposed highlights so we can really mimic the mood from that film. But we’re really being conscious about how much hard vs. soft light, especially with her darker complexion.”

The timer’s tick slices through the silence.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

Allan writes again for a beat, then clarifies again:

“I see. And what do you make of what the Samantha Morton character does in the rest of that scene?”
“In terms of what?”
“Well, she screams ‘RUUUUN!” at the top of her lungs with damn near crazy eyes. It’s really the most chilling scene in the film, I think.”
“Oh yes, I mean we can add that in there, too. The line we have in the script does have Neshia giving a warning of some sort. We still have to sort it out in rehearsals.”
“No, I’m not telling you to add it.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Hmmm. So. The thing about the particular Samantha Morton scene that comes to mind is that she’s having a premonition, and speaking through dead spirits. But I can’t see many scenarios in which a black character having that same premonition won’t veer into a portrayal of some kind of battle with mental health. Rarely do you have a character acting like that who isn—“
“Wait, I don’t understand.”

Allan glances at the ticking timer.

“It’ll just look a little crazy.”
“Well, I was more concerned about the skin tones with all that light coming in. I hadn’t thought about her coming off a certain way.”
“I understand. But I think it’s something that could—will—be a tricky thing to pull off properly. If that’s your reference point, I’d advise you to reconsider.”
“But that is the whole sequence right there. Like, her whole character is based around that vision. Our march into the final act hinges on it, too.”
“I know. I know. When I read the script I marked it for our discussion, so I’m glad you’re bringing it up now.”

Allan pauses a beat—but not for himself—before continuing:

“Does Neshia have to be a black woman? We encourage productions to really consider if the demographic swing is worth it.”
“I mean, we’ve already cast Monica. But yes, I’d really like for her to be.”
“Monica B. Jamison?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Well, I mean. All her previous big roles were these sort of half-demented, midwife characters, usually vaguely coded as needy and unhelpful. Terrific talent, but… yeah. I’m not exactly sure she should just fall into this role without major caution. She already has played several characters that we can’t stand.”
“Okay. Wow. Interesting. So what does that leave us?”
“Good question. I think maybe the whole eye rolling into the back of her head thing will definitely need to be toned down a bit. Can’t do that. I’m not sure what she could be doing instead. That’s up to you.”
“Hmmm. Well. That’s not going to go over well with my team. We’re already 4 weeks out until shooting starts.”
“I hear that.”

Mallory takes a moment to think to herself.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

“Mallory, how about we cut it here. I think I have enough to make a diagnosis.”

Her brow even more furrowed, she offers something up:

“Okay. Well, wait wait. What if she has this kind of Oracle feel. You know, a Gloria Foster thing. Rest in peace, of course. The warning that Neshia tells Daniel, our hero, can come very nonchalantly. Still the strong highlights, but while she’s cooking or organizing something.”
“Hmmmm. That’s a tough one. I think what we might be saying there is that she’s this all knowing, stagnant character. The Oracle has a very specific philosophical reason for having that demeanor. I don’t think Neshia as written can carry that.”
“Gosh. Here I thought I was throwing you a bone.”
“The only other thing I could suggest is maybe devoting more of your pages in act 2 towards filling out Neshia so that by the time her premonition happens, you can…”
“Allan. Really? More pages? That’s a lot to ask.”
“I mean, I don’t know what else to say at this stage.”
“Say that I have a green light from the studio to push this back 6 weeks.”

Allan gives a courtesy chuckle, then glances at the timer.

Tick, tick, tick, tick. 3 minutes.

“I hear you. But I think my role—and I say this often because I think it’s an uncomfortable phase for many productions—is really supposed to help streamline things on the backend. Use me as a resource to get it correct now as opposed to dealing with it later.”

Mallory is stressed.

“That’s if we have a backend.”
“Is there anything else? You’ll have a diagnosis from me later tonight.”
“No, I gotta run, too. Art department folks are breathing down my neck. But, yeah. Looking forward to your assessment.”
“Talk soon, Mallory.”
“You too, Allan.”

The feed of Mallory blips away and the black mirror of the screen leaves us looking at Allan, sitting his usual 5 feet back from the computer.

We pull out wider: Plants on all sides around him. Furniture is sparing and there’s a sense that he could be moving out any day now. But then again, that’s been the sense for almost a decade.

Allan hustles over to a large drafting table in the middle of the space. He drops the legal pad face down onto a flat piece of glass in the middle and it SCANS the contents. The desk PROJECTS a hologram OUTWARD into the physical space of the room around him. Scribbles, keywords, talking points, sketches and even a crude doodle of Mallory he made all appear in the physical space.

Tick, tick, tick, tick: 2 minutes left.

“Wanda. Prepare the ingestion window.”

A black, digital  “hole” opens in the side of the table.

Allan reaches into a drawer and pulls out a white glove, adorned with silver piping along the vein pattern of the hand. He slides it it on, flexes his fingers and the floating scribbles immediately react: they jiggle in place, signaling their mutability.

“Mallory, mallory, mallory…” Allan murmurs to himself while staring at the cluster of doodles hovering in front of him.

He walks around it, and moves to another scribble in all caps: THIS TOO SHALL NOT PASS LOL

Allan reaches for the different scribbles: picking them up and clumping them together, stacking them into a thick, unreadable mass.

A calm, female voice descends into the room:

“Allan, it seems you already know the diagnosis of Mallory’s proposal?”
“Of course. She’s going to be rejected.”
“Well, why go through the trouble of doing a timed diagnosis?”
“Process, Wanda. I care about getting a little bit better every single day.”

With his other hand he pulls out a tiny handheld spatula of sorts from the drawer, similar to what they use at Cold Stone Creamery. It also has the same silver piping.

Tick, tick, tick, tick. 1 minute.

Allan glances at the timer, and the ticks feel louder, sharper. He is calm, but he hurries.

With the glove he molds the mass of words and markings into a ball in front of his face. The strings of sentences float about, like loose straight hairs being corralled together. He reigns them back in, keeping the the shape of the thing. He keeps churning, using the spatula tool as a way to smooth the edges.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

The hovering clump is now about the size of softball and almost a fully black object, if not for the spaces where the contours of his handwriting create tiny holes. THROUGH ONE OF THESE HOLES, we see his eyes, determined and focused. He continues sculpting, patting it down. Almost there. With the gloved hand he spins the mass around, tactfully using the spatula tool to make it more spherical.

Churn, churn, churn.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

The timer approaches zero.

Tick…

Allan makes some final touches.

Tick…

Allan yells in the direction of the table: “Wanda. Ingest!”

Tick…

Allan cradles the “ball” in his glove hand, cocks it back and throws it right into the hole in the side of the table. The hole swallows it and disappears.

In it’s place, a GREEN hologram notification: “MALLORY_SESSION_6: INGESTED” pops up just as…

The kitchen timer GOES OFF: a series of synths, beeps and bloops.

Allan sighs.

Wanda’s voice descends into the room again:

“That’s a new record, Allan. You beat your previous time of 34 minutes for a diagnosis submission. Would you like to see the results?”
“Thanks, Wanda. And no, I have another call right now. Prepare the rejection letter to be sent to Mallory tonight.”

The automated voice doesn’t respond.

The hologram dissipates, minimizing back into the table, and Allan slips off the glove, sliding it back in the drawer. He sits down again in the same video call position as before.

A call comes in. Allan answers it.

“Hey, Allan. Good to see you.”
“Hello, Wanda.”

This is Wanda, but not the automated voice from before. A living, breathing woman, in her late 50s with a medium complexion. She wears a sleek, collarless shirt that compliments her erect sitting posture. Her hanging earrings are ornate, and they sway as she speaks:

“I’m glad we could meet, Allan. I don’t need to tell you that your work has been stellar these past few months. I’m sure you already know.”
“Thank you, Wanda. It’s always good to hear that from you. I’m simply carrying the torch.”
“Well. We are few who understand this work. So, thank you. But, speaking of torches, I did want to talk to you about this upcoming review season. There are changes coming.”
“Changes, how?”
“Well, I’ll tell you this. They want to cut our funding. I’m not keen on it happening, but it is a reality. The board feels our work is creating unnecessary pressures. I’m having trouble advocating for the long-term here.”
“What funding?”

Wanda chuckles.

“Allan. I’m letting you know the best way I can. But we do have to consider the possibility of a new way of guiding productions.”
“Wanda. Excuse me, I’m not sure I understand. Is this happening or is this us discussing?”
“Allan, listen to me.”
“Wanda. This isn’t some time-honored profession. I thought that’s what we’ve always implicitly admitted in all our discussions. The Pre-Trope System is us taking advantage of a moment, and just running with it. We’re playing with house money.”
“I hear you. But—”
“So what is there to cut? We have a footing now and we see how it impacts the final product. The rates of problematic images are down across the board. You don’t see images of people of color with any kind of missteps. Hair, make up, lighting. Jesus—writing, character, story. All the major departments feed off of our report. All the major departments become way more invested when a diagnosis is present.”
“You’re not wrong. I see those same statistics every day. But rightness isn’t what I have to offer to the board.”
“We’ve been doing—I’ve—been doing record numbers, and quicker diagnoses than originally projected. This thing is streamlined. There’s no fat on it.”
“It’s not you, Allan. It’s just an industry-wide shift away from our principles. They’re not saying they want less inclusivity, but they are saying they want more productions. They want more product. It’s just how these things go.”
“So you’re letting this happen?”
“Allan. Come on.”
“No, I’m serious. This is exactly what happened 5 years ago when we had to install the system. We had to convince them. And you did it. I remember your words at that time. I would’ve never expected such a lack of resilience.”
“Allan. Watch your mouth. Settle down.”

A beat. Wanda continues:

“I am hearing you. But let’s be realistic. I didn’t call for your counsel.”

Allan takes a moment.

“So what then?”
“Our criteria has changed.”

Wanda’s face blips off the screen and is replaced with a document with lots of text, but there are major sections crossed off in red marker. It’s a manifesto. At the top, the title is in bold lettering: “The Minority-Owned Report: A Rubric for Predicting Tropes, by Wanda Sydow”. The screen tracks Allan’s eyes as he scans the document. He has seen this manifesto a million and one times before, but we’re watching his eyes move only to the revisions, ZOOMING IN on points of interest. Tiers of qualifications, gone. Point systems have been shaved from scales of 10 to scales of 3. A major section with instructions called “Trope Tally” has been crossed out. In its place is a recommendation: “If more than 5, please report. Otherwise, approve.” Allan sits back in his chair, he is stunned:

“Wow. Wanda. This is your baby.”

We can’t see her, but Wanda’s voice comes through from behind the document on the screen:

“Allan, I think you’ll find that this just makes your job a little bit easier.”
“I don’t even know what to say.”

The document blips off, and we see Wanda again.

“Good. I think that’s fine. At some point, we’ll look at this moment and remember how it made us feel. But that’s not right now. In the meantime, keep up the good work. If there are any questions, do let me know.”

Allan’s gaze is off in the distance.

“Alright. Take care, Allan.”
“Yeah.”

The feed blips away. The reflection of Allan is all we’re left with. The printer next to him spits out the manifesto with bright red revisions. Allan walks right past the printing revisions into the main part of his apartment, rummaging through a bag.

The other Wanda’s voice descends onto the room:

“Allan, I did want to circle back. Would you like to hear the diagnosis for Mallory?”
“Whatever. Go for it.”

Allan pulls out a small tube from his satchel, shaped like a tiny inhaler. He lifts it to his nostrils and takes a deep sniff. He recoils from the sensation.

“She’s been approved.”

Allan sits back on the couch, and lets his eyes roll back into his head. The room fades from view and things begin to go dark.

“Well, good for her.”
“Should I prepare the approval letter?”
“Do as you please, Wanda.”