Shelly Ovitz

"Our little princess is truly radiant today," Sophia said, gently placing a piece of sliced beef onto Irene's plate, her gaze lingering on the shimmering brooch pinned to her collar. "Do you like the gift?"

"I love it, thank you, sis! How is your film coming along? Have you finalized the casting?" Irene speared a piece of beef and popped it into her mouth. The aroma of butter diffused perfectly, and she found yet another benefit to not being an actress: at least she didn't have to mistreat her taste buds.

"Internal auditions are scheduled for next month. Do you want to come and take a look? You'll have to take this step sooner or later anyway." Sophia watched her younger sister, whose features so closely resembled her own, clearly reading the ambition in her eyes.

"I'll check my schedule for next month. I'm planning to head out for my graduation trip in a couple of days." While she called it a trip, it was actually the official start of her directorial plan.

"Then we'll be in touch when the time comes."

After the party ended, the guests gradually dispersed. Irene went alone to the secret space in the attic.

The air here was filled with the scent of old wood and dusty years. Sixteen-millimeter film canisters were piled in the corner, several cameras covered in a thin layer of dust stood silently to the side, and there were hundreds of worn books and stacks of videotapes—all treasures she had cherished since she was a child.

She sat by the window and looked up at the moon in the distant sky. The moonlight was as bright as it had been in her previous life; she couldn't see any difference.

But when she looked down and saw the well-trained waiters cleaning up the traces of the party below, this scene was completely different from her previous life.

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

A slight creak of the wooden floorboards came from behind. Irene turned around; it was her father, Francis.

He walked up, one hand gently stroking Irene's hair, while the other lightly brushed against the old wooden box from the era of The Godfather.

Irene curled up under the window sill, a stack of faded scripts at her feet. The moonlight spilled down, illuminating her small face.

"So," he began, his voice sounding exceptionally gentle in the quiet attic, "my little graduate intends to spend the entire summer traveling through Europe, is that right? That's much more impressive than I was at that age."

Irene laughed: "I just want to see more of the world before I start university, Dad."

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

He paused slightly, weighing his words. "Although George already submitted your application to USC, before you enroll, just like I did with your sister, I still want to confirm one more time: have you really thought it through? Do you really want to walk this path? You couldn't even tell me and George apart when you were little..."

"Dad, that was all a long time ago. I really don't have face blindness." Irene couldn't help but interrupt. It seemed that the "mistaking people" joke was destined to be nagged about by her father for the rest of her life.

"Alright, I'm relieved to see you so determined. Your sister wasn't even this decisive at your age; she even discussed other possibilities with me." There was a hint of disappointment in Francis's tone at not being relied upon by his youngest daughter, but there was more pride than anything else.

"Dad, I will succeed." Irene's tone was firm.

Francis looked at his daughter for a long time, seeing that familiar flame in her eyes—the same one he had in his youth, yet freer and more fearless.

"Do you know what I worry about most?" he finally said. "It's not that I'm afraid you'll fail, but that this industry will try to change you and make you cynical. Especially since... you and your sister are not walking the same path."

Irene was a little surprised. Although she had always stated she wanted to be a director, she had never revealed a specific direction.

"Why are you surprised? I am Francis Coppola. You've never been interested in those highly literary films since you were a child. You didn't even finish watching my Apocalypse Now, but you couldn't put down Bram Stoker's Dracula. Isn't that enough to explain the problem?"

Francis smiled as he reminisced with her. Come to think of it, she was the only one in the family who truly loved Bram Stoker's Dracula. Before that, the videotape had gathered dust on the shelf for years, ignored by everyone.

"Fine, I really can't sit through overly serious subject matter."

If you like this book, please remember to add it to your bookshelf so you don't lose it next time.

"Since you've chosen a path different from ours, the help we can give you might be limited. But regardless, you are a daughter of the Coppola family. When your sister went to college, I gave her a camera. Now that it's your turn, I've prepared a gift as well."

Francis handed a business card to Irene. "When you are ready to shoot your first film, you can contact him at any time."

The card read: Shelly Ovitz, CAA.

"Ovitz?" Was it the Ovitz she knew?

"It seems you've guessed it. Michael once owed me a favor. After I talked to him about your situation, he recommended Shelly." Francis gently stroked her hair. In Hollywood, you can't get anywhere without connections.

"Shelly is his junior. After he went to Disney, many of the resources left at CAA were gradually taken over by him. Don't let his youth fool you; he has a limitless future at CAA."

"Is that so? Then will he even look at me?" A rising star of an agent—would he be interested in a female director with no credentials?

"I think he will give you a chance, but whether you can seize that opportunity is up to you." After saying this, Francis stood up and left the attic, leaving Irene alone to contemplate in the moonlight.

The next day.

Irene asked for a cup of black tea and sat in the hanging chair in her room, swaying gently. The safe on the left side of the desk was open, containing various precious gifts she had received over the years.

In addition to these, there was a seemingly ordinary diary that looked somewhat out of place.

She flipped through the notebook. At a glance, it was full of English letters, but upon closer inspection, they couldn't form words; these were the titles of films she had recorded using pinyin since she was ten years old.

In fact, as someone who valued aesthetics, she had picky tastes in movies in her previous life.

She could watch films with handsome men and beautiful women many times without getting bored, but she couldn't sit through films that deliberately exposed human nature or focused on ugliness and misery even once. So, she was a natural-born commercial film director.

Besides recording the titles and synopses of films she loved or that were particularly famous, there was an encrypted timeline in the notebook, composed of a mix of Chinese capitalized numbers and pinyin. Even if the FBI came, they wouldn't be able to decipher it for a while.

It was already 1998. The wave of globalization in Hollywood was gradually unfolding, and many excellent films were likely already in registration or planning stages.

As a woman, even if she graduated from USC, how many people would dare to hire her to direct a film? Let alone a commercial blockbuster, even for independent films like her sister's, there probably wouldn't be many companies willing to distribute them.

Yet, she had little interest in independent films, and it was even less likely she would spend years polishing a debut feature like her sister; it was too much of a waste of time.

No matter how powerful her "Intracranial Cinema" was, it could only replay films she had already seen. If she hadn't seen them, she was completely blind, which greatly limited her range of choices.

Furthermore, although she had the advantage of her "Golden Finger" and had been influenced by two great directors for years, she lacked practical experience and was a complete novice. One had to know that the scenes cut during filming were the majority.

Therefore, shooting a work with a simple plot, likable characters, and one suitable for a film newcomer was her top priority.

Films are deeply influenced by the era and social environment; she couldn't choose a project that was too far ahead of the current timeline. Even if she could successfully replicate it, there might not be a market for it right now.

She couldn't reach commercial blockbusters, and she had no interest in independent films, so the choices left to her were actually only two: low-budget horror films or youth romance films.

But she was a coward and never touched any horror films. She could invest in them once she had money later, but direct them herself? Absolutely out of the question.

That left only youth romantic comedies. Starting with this genre also fit her identity as a young female director.

Irene turned to the page recording youth romance films and took another piece of paper to write down a few titles and story synopses. Afterward, she made an appointment call and had the driver take her to the Writers Guild.