The Script

The next day, Sophia walked into the studio carrying the coffee Orphy had made for her, looking a little tired.

"After we parted last night, did you go clubbing again?" Julie handed her the newly arrived location scouting materials and asked with a teasing smile.

"No. I took Irene home, then stayed at her place. But she kept peppering me with questions all night and didn't let me go to bed until almost dawn." Sophia sighed.

When she'd been that age, she'd been just as eager to learn. But she hadn't wanted to keep bothering her father, so she'd gone around interning on film sets instead. Irene had it easy—she could get firsthand information straight from Sophia.

"Hahaha, she's exactly like you were when you were young."

Wasn't she just? In both looks and personality, Irene was the spitting image of Sophia as a child. That was why Sophia was so endlessly patient with her little sister; it was like looking at her past self.

In the days that followed, Irene got the proposal for The Virgin Suicides from Sophia as a reference and began drafting her own screenplay proposal in earnest.

With a template to work from, she made much faster progress.

The film itself wasn't complicated: it told the story of Ellie, a blonde beauty who, to win back her ex-boyfriend, worked hard to get into Harvard Law School, broke through prejudice with her unique style, earned respect, and ultimately found true love.

That sort of formula was common in Hollywood, so to make the film stand out, the key was to overturn stereotypes, celebrate the value of being true to oneself, and sharply criticize society's prejudice against people based on their looks.

The script also needed sharp, memorable dialogue, well-timed humor, and, most importantly, compelling characters.

The heroine Elle Woods's optimism, resilience, kindness, and confidence were the keys to the film's success.

The film needed enough drama, but its core couldn't be compromised: it had to be a girl's journey of self-discovery and growth. It also couldn't be too preachy. Starting from genuine emotions was the only way to draw teenagers into theaters.

If Irene had to come up with a script like that entirely on her own, she'd have faced a mountain of difficulties.

But she had her Golden Finger. She only needed to write down the original film's plot point by point, then expand on it here and there so the story didn't seem so "perfect" and "precise."

After all, it would still need to be edited later, so she had to leave the editor room to work.

She also needed to add some school conflicts to flesh things out and make Ellie's path to growth seem less smooth.

Before the semester began, Irene spent most of her time in her little apartment.

Aside from Britney, she didn't have many friends. Her classmates either talked about Chanel's latest designs, compared which football team captain had the bigger chest, or went on and on about the little thrill of "losing their virginity." Irene just couldn't get interested.

Though she occasionally got premiere tickets that only people in the industry could get, and there was never a shortage of people hoping to get close to her, she hadn't truly opened up to any of them.

Her sister was busy filming, and her parents weren't exactly suited to discussing "fake friendships between girls at school." In the end, she could only turn to Ophelia.

At the dinner table, Ophelia set out Irene's plate, narrowed her eyes with a smile, and said, "My dear young lady, please forgive me. I'm over forty, and my memories of my youth have long since grown hazy. Even if I did remember anything, I doubt it would be exciting enough to add any sparkle to your script."

"Ah, my dear Orphy... It seems being a screenwriter really isn't easy."

Or any profession, for that matter.

A week before the semester began, Irene returned to the Napa Valley Estate and brought along the script she'd finished over the past few weeks to let her mother, Eleanor, review.

She didn't show it to her father right away. She probably had the "stereotypical" idea that a great director like him wouldn't be interested in stories about teenage girls.

At dinner that evening, her mother brought it up. "I'm a little surprised. Strictly speaking, you haven't even turned seventeen yet, and you've managed to write such incisive, vivid dialogue."

Their family didn't have strict table manners. On the contrary, they'd always thought meals were a good time to bond.

Her father hurriedly swallowed his food and wiped his mouth with a napkin before asking, "What dialogue?"

"When Irene came home this afternoon, she gave me a script she'd written entirely on her own." Her mother stood and fetched the script from the kitchen island.

"Mom thinks it's pretty good?" Irene asked, eating unhurriedly, as if she weren't in any rush.

"Yes, I think it's good. The characters may not have much depth, but at least the story is clear and the plot moves briskly. It could find an audience."

Eleanor meant that it had commercial potential, though it was a little lacking in artistic merit. But Irene had never cared much about "art" in the first place.

"Let me take a look. I can't believe little Irene's writing original scripts now. Sophia's ten years older than you, and even she only dared to adapt someone else's work when she first tried."

Francis took the script and began reading. Irene and her mother didn't disturb him; they continued eating. Irene quietly asked her mother, "I thought Dad wouldn't be very interested in a work by us girls."

Her mother gently squeezed her upper arm. "Then you underestimate your father. He helps polish all of Sophia's scripts now, and yours will be no exception. He's always taken your work very seriously."

Irene nodded. She could certainly feel how much her parents supported them. Just look at her sister's team, which was made up entirely of the Coppola Faction.

By the time her father finished reading the script, dinner was over. He motioned for the servants to clear the table, then led Irene to sit with him in the living room. Her mother followed.

"Now I understand what your mother was saying at the table. For someone your age to write a script like this... I can finally announce to the world: I, Francis Coppola, really did father a genius! Hahaha!"

His proud laughter echoed through the house.

"If you were twenty-seven, or even if you'd written this after graduating college and studying systematically, I wouldn't be surprised.

"But you've only visited a film set a few times, and the only thing you've directed independently is one music video... Under those circumstances, to write a script that fits Hollywood's standards so well, I can only say you were born for this business."

"Dad thinks my script is really great too, right?"

"If I didn't know you'd written it, and someone else had submitted it to me, I might have glanced at it and put it aside. The plot is a little clichéd, some of the twists are clumsy, and it lacks social criticism and any real exploration of human nature. And..." Seeing his daughter's face grow darker and darker, he laughed and stopped criticizing. "It's pure romantic fluff. But I have to say, scripts like this do have more commercial appeal."

Those "clumsy twists" were probably the parts she'd made up herself. Well, at least those bits made her seem a little less like a "genius."

"But you're only seventeen. Even the smartest screenwriter couldn't write something so perfectly suited to Hollywood's market at your age. To me, it may just be 'kids playing house,' but Hollywood needs lighthearted films like this."

Irene couldn't take all that praise as praise for herself. After all, she knew exactly how the script had come about.

But at least she'd made the right choice, hadn't she?

And seeing Irene's calm expression, her father was even more impressed by her modesty and humility. He thought his daughter was almost too exceptional.

Father and daughter were on completely different wavelengths, yet the moment felt warm and natural.

Just then, her mother interrupted Francis's daydreaming. "So, sweetheart, you're planning to direct this film yourself, right?"

Irene suddenly remembered the storyboard she'd drawn. She ran upstairs, thump-thump-thump, to fetch the sketchbook, then hurried back and handed it to her parents.

Her father took it first. As with her earlier music video, these storyboards felt incredibly lifelike, already revealing her early ideas about the language of film. There were only a few pages, since she'd had limited time, but he read through them quickly and handed them to his wife.