Happy days were brief. Irene rested at home for three days before returning to post-production.
Film post-production generally involved three areas: editing, visual effects, and scoring.
It was unclear how Shelly Ovitz persuaded Francis and Jive, but Britney agreed to record the film’s theme song.
This was not in Irene’s original plan. The earlier version of the film had no notable music.
Still, the arrangement tied her and Britney together, which would benefit the release. She did not object, and her confidence in Shelly increased.
An agent who anticipated opportunities for the client was valuable.
For the score, aside from Britney’s theme, everything would go to George’s Skywalker Sound.
The film required minimal visual effects, and the editing was straightforward.
"Hill, thank you for helping this time."
"It’s my job."
In the editing room, Francis introduced Irene to a Coppola Family associate.
"Let Irene do the assembly first. Don’t worry, I’ll monitor. If there are issues, I’ll handle them."
In Hollywood, the producer typically had final cut. Few directors entered the editing room. Access indicated whether a director had real authority over the film.
Irene was able to enter the editing room on her first feature because of the Coppola name.
The white editing room was quiet as Irene and Francis reviewed the assembled footage on the monitor.
"Hill, intercut that shot with shot 067. I need the contrast."
"Hill, add a gunshot on Al’s last line."
"Hill, this dialogue runs long. Add music to support the emotion."
Irene kept her eyes on the monitor. Francis watched her without interrupting.
In two days, the rough cut was completed per Irene’s instructions. Although Francis had seen his daughter’s ability before, her efficiency still surprised him.
After viewing it, he nodded. "Good. The pacing is clear, and the emotional beats work. We can arrange a test screening."
"I think the film fits the summer schedule," Irene said.
"You’re correct. The primary audience is teenagers. Summer is optimal," Francis agreed.
"My work is largely done. Hill will manage the rest. Awards season is starting, and you’ll need me for some events."
"Of course, Dad."
The Oscar ceremony was approaching. As the industry’s most visible annual event, the preceding parties were frequent.
That evening, Irene accompanied her father to the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills.
The ballroom already held many recognizable figures, discussing nominees in small groups.
Old Coppola, a respected figure in the industry, surveyed the room with composure, nodding to acquaintances. His presence drew attention.
"Francis. Irene." George Lucas saw them, excused himself, and crossed the room. He shook hands with Francis, then embraced Irene.
"I heard the rough cut is done. I’m looking forward to our future great director’s work."
"Hey, Uncle George, don’t tease me," Irene said with a smile.
"No, I’m serious. You don’t hear how Francis talks about you privately. He says it doesn’t look like student work. My expectations are high because of your father."
Several nearby executives and friends gathered, offering Irene congratulations.
Praise surrounded Irene. Francis looked at his daughter with evident pride.
The moment felt warm, like a traditional Hollywood generational handoff.
However, the atmosphere changed with a somber voice.
"Oh, look who’s here. Francis, and our newest Director Coppola."
The crowd shifted as Frank Darabont approached, holding whiskey, with a faint smile. His gaze lingered on Old Coppola with evident coldness, then moved to Irene.
George Lucas’s smile lessened, and his expression grew cautious. The area became quieter as people sensed tension.
"Frank." Francis’s voice was steady but distant. He nodded in acknowledgment.
Darabont ignored the formality. His focus was on Irene.
"What a scene," he said, taking a sip, his tone flat.
"Another ’Coppola’ director in Hollywood. Tell me, when you sit in the director’s chair and call ’Action,’ do you find directing simple? Like a family inheritance you receive at birth?"
He paused, glancing at Francis, whose expression had darkened, and continued,
"After all, your father showed long ago that you can take someone else’s hard-earned script, change the name, and make a successful film. It seems he’s passed that method to you as well."
The air grew still.
Irene’s smile vanished. She stepped forward and faced Darabont. "Hello, Mr. Darabont."
Her voice was calm. "The main lesson my father taught me was to protect final cut like a director should. As for the script—"
She paused. "In my film, every word is mine. Perhaps you judge others’ careers by your own difficulties, but I do not.
If you’re interested, I’d welcome your thoughts after the film is released. About the film itself, not about disputes from decades ago."
Darabont’s expression stiffened. He had not expected the younger Coppola to be prepared. He opened his mouth but said nothing.
Surprise crossed Francis’s face, then turned to a deep smile. He didn’t intervene, looking at his daughter with pride, as if to say, "This is my heir."
George Lucas stepped in, patting Darabont on the shoulder.
"Alright, Frank, the younger generation has its own approach. Come, let’s try their new malt whiskey." He guided the silent Darabont away.
The room returned to its previous state. Only Francis looked at his daughter, unable to hide his pride.
But Irene could no longer engage with the event lightly. In areas she couldn’t see, there were likely others like Darabont criticizing the Coppola family.
Francis patted his daughter’s back. "You handled that well. Don’t feel pressure."
"Dad..." With an adversary, Irene could be composed and direct, but with her father, she was momentarily at a loss.
"You will succeed, won’t you?"
"Yes, Dad," Irene said. "I will make you proud."
"That’s enough. Let’s continue to enjoy the evening. Don’t let unpleasant things occupy our time."
Her father spoke lightly, but Irene could not dismiss it so easily. If this film failed, she would not direct again for years, and the Coppola name would face long-term criticism. She could not allow that.