Shelly Ovitz

"Our little princess is absolutely glowing today," Sophia said, placing a slice of beef on Irene's plate. Her gaze fell on the sparkling brooch pinned to Irene's collar. "Do you like your present?"

"I love it! Thanks, Sis! How's your movie coming along? Have you picked the cast yet?" Irene speared a piece of beef and popped it into her mouth. The buttery aroma spread just right, and she found another perk to not becoming an actress: at least she wouldn't have to deprive her taste buds.

"We're holding internal auditions next month. Want to come watch? You'll have to go through the same process sooner or later." Sophia studied her sister, whose features resembled her own, and could clearly read the ambition in her eyes.

"I'll see what my schedule looks like next month. I'm planning to leave on my graduation trip in a couple of days." It was supposed to be a trip, but in truth, it marked the official start of her directing career.

"Then we'll talk closer to the time."

After the gathering ended, everyone gradually left. Irene went alone to the secret room on the top floor.

The room was filled with the scent of old wood and time gone by. Sixteen-millimeter film canisters were piled in a corner, several cameras stood nearby under a thin layer of dust, and hundreds of well-thumbed books and stacks of videotapes filled the space. They were the treasures she had cherished most throughout her life.

She sat by the window and looked up at the moon in the distance. Its light was just as bright as it had been in her previous life; nothing seemed different.

But when she looked down and saw the well-trained servers clearing away the traces of the gathering, she knew this scene was entirely different from the one in her previous life.

"Sweetheart, I knew I'd find you here."

The wooden floor creaked softly behind her. Irene turned around. It was her father, Francis.

He came over and gently ran one hand through Irene's hair, while the other brushed lightly over the old wooden chest from the days of The Godfather.

Irene sat curled up beneath the window, a stack of faded scripts at her feet. Moonlight fell across her little face, making it shine.

"So," he began, his voice especially gentle in the quiet attic, "my little graduate is planning to spend the whole summer traveling across Europe, is that right? You're more ambitious than I was at your age."

Irene smiled. "I just want to see more of the world before I start college, Dad."

Francis pulled over a nearby director's chair and sat beside her. "And after you've seen the world? Have your thoughts about the future changed?"

He paused, choosing his words carefully. "George already sent your application to USC, but before you start there, just as I did with your sister, I want to make sure you've really thought this through. Are you certain this is the path you want to take? When you were little, you couldn't even tell George and me apart..."

"Dad, that was when I was little. I really don't have face blindness." Irene couldn't help interrupting. It seemed the "mistaking people" joke was destined to follow her for the rest of her life.

"All right. I'm glad to see you're so sure of yourself. When your sister was your age, she wasn't nearly as decisive as you. She even discussed other possibilities with me." A hint of sadness crept into Francis's voice at the thought that his younger daughter didn't rely on him, but pride outweighed it.

"Dad, I'll succeed," Irene said firmly.

Francis gazed at his daughter for a long moment. In her eyes, he saw that familiar flame, just like the one he'd had in his youth, but freer and more fearless.

"Do you know what I'm most worried about?" he finally said. "It's not that you might fail. I'm afraid the industry will try to change you and make you cynical. Especially since... you and your sister aren't taking the same path."

Irene was a little surprised. Although she had always said she wanted to become a director, she had never revealed what kind of films she planned to make.

"Why are you surprised? I'm Francis Coppola. Ever since you were little, you've had no interest in films with literary pretensions. You never even finished watching my Apocalypse Now, but you couldn't get enough of Bram Stoker's Dracula. Doesn't that tell you everything?"

Francis smiled as he reminisced with her. She was the only one in the family who genuinely liked Bram Stoker's Dracula. Before that, the videotape had gathered dust on the shelf for years, untouched by anyone.

"All right, I admit I can't get through anything too serious."

"Since you've chosen a different path from ours, there may be limits to how much we can help you. But no matter what, you're a Coppola. When your sister went to college, I gave her a camera. Now it's your turn. I've prepared a present for you, too."

Francis held out a business card to Irene. "When you're ready to make your first film, you can contact him anytime."

The card read: Shelly Ovitz, CAA.

"Ovitz?" Was it the Ovitz she knew?

"Looks like you've guessed. Michael owed me a favor once. After I told him about you, he recommended Shelly." Francis gently stroked her hair. In Hollywood, it was hard to get anywhere without connections.

"Shelly is his protégé. After Michael went to Disney, Shelly gradually took over many of the connections and resources he left behind at CAA. He may be young, but he has a very bright future there."

"Is that so? Do you think he'll take a chance on me?" Would a promising agent be interested in an unproven woman director like her?

"I think he'll give you a chance. Whether you can make the most of it is up to you." With that, Francis stood and left the attic, leaving Irene alone to think in the moonlight.

The next day.

Irene ordered a cup of black tea and sat in the hanging chair in her room, gently rocking back and forth. The safe on the left side of her desk stood open. Inside were all the valuable gifts she had received over the years.

There was also an ordinary-looking diary that seemed out of place.

She opened it. At first glance, it looked like a jumble of English letters; on closer inspection, they couldn't be pieced together into words. They were the titles of films she had recorded in pinyin since the age of ten.

In her previous life, she had been picky about films, thanks to her obsession with attractive people.

She could watch films starring handsome men and beautiful women over and over without getting tired of them. But she couldn't sit through even one film that deliberately exposed human nature or had actors make themselves ugly and miserable. She was clearly born to direct commercial films.

Besides the titles and brief descriptions of the films she loved or considered especially famous, the diary also contained an encrypted timeline made up of Chinese numerals and pinyin. Even the FBI would need a while to make sense of it.

It was already 1998. Hollywood's wave of globalization was gradually taking shape, and many excellent films were probably already in development or being planned.

As a woman, even if she graduated from USC, how many people would dare to hire her to direct a film? Forget blockbusters—even if she made independent films like her sister, few companies would be willing to distribute them.

But she had little interest in independent films, and she couldn't possibly spend several years polishing her debut the way her sister had. That would be a waste of time.

No matter how powerful her Intracranial Cinema was, it could only replay films she had already seen. Anything she hadn't watched was a complete blind spot, severely limiting her options.

Besides, despite having her Golden Finger and years of exposure to two great directors, she lacked practical experience. She was a complete novice. After all, most of what got filmed ended up on the cutting-room floor.

So her best bet was to make a film with a simple plot, likable characters, and a story suited to a beginner.

Films were deeply shaped by the times and their social context, so she couldn't choose a project set too far beyond the current timeline. Even if she could successfully recreate one, there was no guarantee anyone would pay to see it now.

She couldn't reach for a blockbuster, and she had no interest in independent films. That left her with only two options: a low-budget horror film or a teen romance.

But she was a coward who never watched horror films. Investing in one after she had money was fine; directing one herself was out of the question.

That left teen romantic comedies. Starting with that genre also suited her status as a young female director.

Irene turned to the page where she had recorded teen romances and took another sheet of paper, writing down several titles and brief plot descriptions. Then she made an appointment by phone and asked her driver to take her to the Writers Guild.