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Before Color A century away, you’re trapped in black-and-white, trying to break the clean line of shadow and light that follows you through every frame—through love scene and gun scene, darkening everything to a dull metal: your skin, the corners of the studio, even the outside world that should say lush but only speaks in gray. You want to name the flowers in your hand—clutched by a color that doesn’t translate. Call it rust, call it blood. Rain throbs against the stage’s façade of window, bitter like river water, like the voice you use to scrape across the room. When you scream in the last shot, everyone in the world from Bangkok to Brazil can hear your red-tipped shrill, recognize it as their own. • • •  • • • ...

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