It Had to Succeed

Happy days never lasted long. Irene had only been home for three days before she threw herself back into post-production.

Generally speaking, film post-production fell into three main categories: editing, special effects, and music.

No one knew how Shelly Ovitz had managed to persuade both Francis and Jive, but Britney would be singing the movie's theme song.

This hadn't been part of Irene's plan. After all, the original film didn't have any particularly memorable music. Still, there was no denying that this would tie her more closely to Britney, which would be a huge benefit when her film came out. She certainly wouldn't turn it down. At the same time, her confidence in Shelly's work grew even stronger.

An agent who was always looking for opportunities with their client's interests in mind was a good agent.

Aside from Britney's theme song, they would leave all the other music to George's Skywalker Sound. Their film had almost no need for special effects, and frankly, even the editing wasn't particularly difficult.

"Hill, sorry for the trouble."

"It's no trouble."

In the editing room, Francis introduced Irene to one of the Coppola Family's members. "Let Irene put together a rough cut first. Don't worry, I'll be here watching. If there are any problems, leave them to me."

In Hollywood, producers had always had the final say over films. Not many directors were allowed into the editing room; whether they were allowed in showed if they truly had ownership of the film.

Irene, too, had only been able to enter the editing room on her first film because of the name Coppola.

The white editing room was exceptionally quiet. Irene and Francis watched intently as the shots that had just been cut together played on the monitor.

"Hill, cut back and forth between that last shot and shot 067. I need a contrast."

"Hill, add a gunshot when Elle says that last line."

"Hill, this dialogue is too long and dry. Add some music to heighten the emotion."

Irene kept her eyes on the monitor, while Francis watched her from the side, never once interrupting.

In two days, the film's rough cut was finished according to Irene's instructions. Francis had already marveled at his daughter's talent more than once, but he was still amazed by how quickly she worked.

After watching the whole thing, he nodded. "Not bad. The pacing is clear, and the emotional beats land. I can arrange a screening."

"I think the film would be best suited for a summer release," Irene quickly suggested.

"You're right. Your film's main audience is teenagers. There's no better time to release it than the summer."

"My little genius has nearly finished her work. Hill can take care of the rest. The Oscars are coming up, and I imagine you'll need me to accompany you to some social events."

"Of course, Dad."

The Oscars were about to begin. As the most talked-about event of the year, they brought a flurry of parties in the lead-up.

That night, Irene went with her father to the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills. By the time they arrived, the spacious ballroom was already filled with familiar faces. The guests stood in small groups, quietly discussing this year's nominees.

Old man Coppola, the godfather of the film world, surveyed the room with an easy confidence, occasionally nodding to familiar faces. His presence always drew plenty of admiring and curious glances.

"Francis! Irene!" When George Lucas spotted them, he quickly excused himself from the people he was with and strode over. He shook his old friend's hand firmly, then turned to Irene and hugged her. "I heard the rough cut is finished. I can't wait to see the work of our future great director."

"Hey, Uncle George, don't tease me," Irene said with a smile.

"No, no, I'm not teasing you. I'm serious. You have no idea how highly Francis speaks of you in private. He says it doesn't feel like the work of a student who hasn't even graduated yet. Your father has really raised my expectations."

A few friends and film studio executives gathered around them, offering Irene their congratulations.

Praise surrounded Irene like bubbles of champagne. Francis looked at his daughter, his face beaming with pride.

If you're enjoying this book, add it to your bookshelf so you can find it again next time.

The moment was warm and perfect, as if another heartwarming Hollywood story were unfolding before them.

But the harmony was broken by a voice tinged with gloom.

"Oh, look who it is. Francis—and our newest Coppola director."

The crowd parted slightly like the Red Sea. Frank Darabont approached with a glass of whiskey in his hand and a faintly mocking smile on his face. His sharp gaze paused briefly on Old Man Coppola, carrying a chill that seemed impossible to dispel, then slowly and deliberately shifted to Irene.

George Lucas's smile faded a little, and a note of wariness flickered in his eyes. The room fell noticeably quieter. Some of those in the know sensed the tension in the air.

"Frank." Francis's voice was steady, though distant. He gave a slight nod in greeting.

Darabont ignored the cool politeness, focusing all his attention on Irene.

"What a touching scene," he said, taking a sip of his drink. His tone was mild but mocking. "Hollywood's got another Coppola director. Tell me, dear, when you sat in the director's chair and called 'Action,' did you think directing films was especially easy? Like a family inheritance, something you could claim by birth?"

He paused, glanced at Francis's face as it darkened, then continued in an unhurried voice. "After all, your father proved long ago that you could take someone else's heartfelt script, change the name, and make a great film, didn't he? It seems he passed that skill on to you without holding anything back."

The air around them seemed to freeze.

The smile vanished from Irene's face. She stepped forward, almost directly opposite Darabont. "Mr. Darabont, hello." Her voice was calm. "The most important lesson my father taught me was how to fight like a warrior to protect my final cut. As for the script..."

She paused briefly before continuing. "Every word of my film came from my own hand. Perhaps you're used to defining other people's careers by your own troubles, but I'm not.

"If you're interested, I'd be happy to hear your thoughts once the film is finished. Of course, about the film itself, not some old score from decades ago."

For a moment, the mockery on Darabont's face froze, then turned livid. He hadn't expected the youngest Coppola daughter to be no delicate flower, but a cactus bristling with spines. He opened his mouth, but for once, no words came.

A flicker of surprise crossed Francis's face, then gave way to a deep smile. He didn't interrupt. He simply watched his daughter with pride, as if to say, "See? This is my heir."

George Lucas stepped in at just the right moment to smooth things over, patting Darabont on the shoulder. "All right, Frank. Young people have their own rules. Come on, let's go try that new malt whiskey over there." He half-forcibly led the frozen Darabont away.

The crowd acted as if nothing had happened, quickly returning to its earlier warmth. Only Francis looked at his daughter, unable to contain his pride.

But Irene could no longer enjoy the party with the same ease. Perhaps, in corners she couldn't see, there were plenty of people like Darabont who mocked the Coppola Family behind their backs.

Francis reached out and patted his daughter on the back. "You handled that well. Don't let it get to you."

"Dad..." Irene could face an enemy with calm, sharp words, but when it came to her father, she suddenly didn't know what to say.

"You'll succeed, won't you?"

"Yes, Dad." Irene spoke earnestly. "I'll make you proud."

"That's all that matters, sweetheart. Let's enjoy the party and not let unpleasant things take up our time."

Her father made it sound easy, but Irene couldn't put it aside so readily. If the film failed, she wouldn't direct another one for years—and the Coppola Family would become a long-running joke. She couldn't let that happen.