Fort Greene.
Summer of ’77.
Exterior: day.
There’s a man.
He’s twenty years young, but for the first time, he sees the world through the lens of a Super 8 camera— and nothing’s the same.
But his story doesn’t start here.
Cut back.
The kitchen table.
Cobble Hill.
His mother says, “You always have to be ten times better.”
So he keeps writing.
And does not stop.
He writes about the heat.
About the game.
About the block.
And home.
He writes with his heart.
His music.
His way of seeing things.
And always by a hand— his left hand.
And he keeps writing and writing and writing.
Until it all cuts to black.
Title appears.
This is the story of the storyteller from Brooklyn.
SUPER: What moves you, makes you.
Summer of ’77.
Exterior: day.
There’s a man.
He’s twenty years young, but for the first time, he sees the world through the lens of a Super 8 camera— and nothing’s the same.
But his story doesn’t start here.
Cut back.
The kitchen table.
Cobble Hill.
His mother says, “You always have to be ten times better.”
So he keeps writing.
And does not stop.
He writes about the heat.
About the game.
About the block.
And home.
He writes with his heart.
His music.
His way of seeing things.
And always by a hand— his left hand.
And he keeps writing and writing and writing.
Until it all cuts to black.
Title appears.
This is the story of the storyteller from Brooklyn.
SUPER: What moves you, makes you.