"Our little princess looks radiant today," Sophia said, placing a slice of beef on Irene’s plate. Her gaze rested on the brooch pinned to Irene’s lapel. "Do you like the gift?"
"I love it. Thank you, Sophia. How is your film progressing? Have you cast the actors yet?" Irene took a bite. The flavor of butter was pronounced. She considered it another advantage of not pursuing acting: she did not need to restrict her diet.
"Internal auditions are scheduled for next month. Would you like to observe? You will have to take that step eventually." Sophia studied her sister’s features, which resembled her own, and recognized the ambition in her expression.
"I will check my schedule. I plan to leave for my graduation trip in a few days." Although she described it as a trip, it was, in fact, the first stage of her directing plan.
"Then we will be in touch."
After the party concluded and the guests departed, Irene went alone to the space on the top floor.
The air carried the scent of aged wood and dust. Sixteen-millimeter film canisters were stacked in the corners. Several cameras stood covered in dust, and there were hundreds of worn books and videotapes. These objects constituted her most valued possessions since childhood.
She sat by the window and looked at the moon. The moonlight was as clear as it had been in her previous life. Yet when she looked down and observed the waiters clearing the remnants of the party, the contrast with her former life was evident.
"Honey, I thought I would find you here."
The wooden floor creaked behind her. Irene turned. It was her father, Francis.
He approached and gently touched her hair, while his other hand rested on an old wooden chest from the production of The Godfather.
Irene sat beneath the windowsill with a stack of faded scripts at her feet. Moonlight illuminated her face.
"So," he said, his voice quiet in the attic, "my graduate intends to spend the summer traveling through Europe. That is more ambitious than anything I attempted at your age."
Irene smiled. "I want to see more of the world before university, Dad."
Francis moved a director’s chair closer and sat beside her. "And after you have seen it? Has your perspective on the future changed?"
He paused. "George has already submitted your materials to USC. Before you enroll, just as I did with your sister, I want to confirm once more: have you decided? Do you intend to pursue this path? When you were younger, you could not distinguish between George and me."
"Dad, that was when I was a child. I do not have face blindness," Irene replied. It appeared the anecdote would be recounted for the foreseeable future.
"Very well. I am pleased to see your determination. Your sister was less certain at your age. She discussed other options with me." A note of regret entered Francis’s tone, though it was outweighed by pride.
"Dad, I will succeed," Irene said firmly.
Francis observed her at length. He recognized the same drive in her eyes that he had possessed in his youth, though hers seemed less constrained.
"Do you know what concerns me most?" he said finally. "I am not worried that you will fail. I am concerned that the industry will attempt to alter you, to make you cynical. Particularly because your path differs from your sister’s."
Irene was surprised. Although she had stated her intention to direct, she had not specified a particular genre.
"Why the surprise? I am Francis Coppola. Since childhood, you have shown little interest in literary films. You never finished Apocalypse Now, yet you repeatedly watched Bram Stoker’s Dracula. That suggests your preferences."
Francis recalled that she was the only member of the family who appreciated Bram Stoker’s Dracula. The videotape had remained on the shelf, untouched by others, for years.
"I cannot engage with overly serious themes for long periods," Irene admitted.
"Since you have chosen a different path from ours, the assistance we can provide may be limited. Nevertheless, you are a daughter of the Coppola family. When your sister entered university, I gave her a camera. Now it is your turn, and I have prepared a gift for you as well."
Francis handed her a business card. "When you are ready to film your first project, you may contact him at any time."
The card read: Shelly Ovitz, CAA.
"Ovitz?" Was this the Ovitz she knew?
"You have guessed correctly. Michael once owed me a favor. After I discussed your situation with him, he recommended Shelly." Francis touched her hair. In Hollywood, progress without connections was nearly impossible.
"Shelly is his junior. After Michael left for Disney, Shelly assumed many of the resources he left at CAA. Do not be misled by his age. He has a promising future at the agency."
"Is that so? Would he be interested in me?" Could a rising agent take interest in a female director without credits?
"I believe he will grant you a meeting, but securing his representation will depend on you." With that, Francis left the attic, leaving Irene to reflect in the moonlight.
The following day, Irene requested black tea and sat in the hanging chair in her room, moving gently. The safe beside her desk was open, containing various valuable gifts accumulated over the years.
Among them was an unremarkable diary that appeared out of place.
She opened the notebook. At first glance, it contained English letters, but on closer examination, they did not form words. Since the age of ten, she had recorded film titles using Pinyin.
In her previous life, she had been selective about films. She could watch productions featuring attractive actors repeatedly, but she avoided works that emphasized suffering or deliberately portrayed characters as unsympathetic. Consequently, her sensibilities aligned with commercial cinema.
In addition to titles and synopses of favored or notable films, the notebook contained an encrypted timeline composed of Chinese numerals and Pinyin. It would be difficult for anyone unfamiliar with the system to decode.
It was 1998. Hollywood’s globalization was accelerating, and many significant films were likely already in development.
Given her status as a woman, even with a degree from USC, few studios would entrust her with directing a major production. Independent distribution, as in her sister’s case, would also present challenges.
She had limited interest in independent films and no intention of spending years developing a debut project. Such an approach would be inefficient.
Although her "internal cinema" allowed her to recall any film she had seen, it did not provide information on films she had not viewed, which constrained her options.
Despite exposure to two accomplished directors, she lacked practical experience. Editing decisions constitute a substantial portion of filmmaking.
Therefore, her initial project should feature a straightforward plot, appealing characters, and accessibility for a novice director.
Films are shaped by their era and social context. Selecting a project too far removed from contemporary sensibilities would risk commercial failure, even if executed competently.
Commercial blockbusters were not feasible, and independent films did not interest her. That left two viable categories: low-budget horror or teen romance.
She had never watched horror films and had no intention of directing one, though she might invest in them later.
That left teen romantic comedies. The genre aligned with her profile as a young female director.
Irene turned to the section on teen romance films, transcribed several titles and synopses onto a separate sheet, scheduled an appointment, and instructed her driver to take her to the Writers Guild.