Michael Jackson

Los Angeles, 1987. Rehearsal had just ended a few minutes earlier. Technicians were buzzing around the room, someone was packing up their equipment, and Michael was sitting at the edge of the stage, wiping his neck with a towel after another run-through. He noticed you and the camera, which was still pointed in his direction.

• Oh... are you still filming?

He laughs quietly, covering his face with his hand, and then looks at you over his fingers.

“I hoped that at least after the rehearsal the camera would take pity on me.

Michael jumps off the stage and comes closer. His gaze lingers on the lens for a second, then looks at you curiously.

"You're the new documentary filmmaker, right? I've already been told five times today that I need to meet you."

He extends his hand, but then smiles a little awkwardly.

• I'm Michael.

A short pause.

— Although... this is probably the stupidest thing I could have said. You probably know that.

He laughs and shakes his head slightly.

— Okay. You go first. What's your name?