The San Fernando Valley sits west of L.A. and has a reputation for having the most adult-film studios in America. Walk through any backlot here and you'll feel eyes on you, especially if you're a female director. Joey had already dodged about fifty flirty "hey, you casting?" looks from wannabe actors just that morning.
Old Hollywood joke: any adult-film actor who doesn't dream of the big screen isn't a real actor. The Valley is supposedly where the "couch auditions" legend was born.
Rebecca Ferguson looked genuinely shocked, and happy, when Joey told her the news.
"I honestly thought Harvard Life was dead in the water. You're telling me we're reshooting the whole thing, and now it's called Juno?"
Joey laughed, bright and easy. "Yeah, sorry about the first version bombing so hard. This time I'm not letting anybody down."
Rebecca shrugged, totally unfazed. "No biggie. I do three or four movies a year, and if I'm lucky one actually comes out. That's indie life. I'm not exactly A-list blockbuster material anyway."
"Trust me," Joey grinned, "we're gonna kill it."
Then the first day of shooting kicked off, mostly because the completion-bond guy kept texting: Hurry the hell up.
The new Juno is about one seriously messed-up family.
The main character is Juno, a super-cool, 17-year-old loner who grew up as the "mistake" kid. No friends, no love, decades-old beef with her mom. Mom's always been too busy chasing men to actually parent, so Juno punishes her by half-assing life: skipping class, bad decisions, the whole rebellious spiral.
Mom's a control-freak oddball who dropped out of college to raise Juno and never let her forget it. She's pinned every ounce of her own failed dreams on Juno getting into Harvard, like that degree will magically make Mom's life mean something.
Then they get evicted and have to move in with Juno's grandma, a woman Mom hasn't spoken to in twenty years. Grandma's just as nuts; Grandpa bailed two decades ago and never looked back. Ever since, Grandma's only hobby has been planning her own funeral in excruciating detail.
So now you've got three generations of eccentric, pissed-off women under one roof, all obsessed with getting Juno into Harvard. Along the way the fighting gets ugly, walls come down, and they finally figure out what family even means.
In the end, Juno doesn't get into Harvard. She "fails" again. But for the first time, the three of them actually feel like a family.
It's the kind of script that screams "For Your Consideration," but Joey knew it had an edge: Juno herself. She's sharp, punk, and her dialogue cuts like a switchblade, perfect mouthy Gen-Z energy that'll make audiences laugh and wince at the same time.
Plus, it's a warm, heartbreaking "loser-family" comedy, the exact vibe that's about to explode in the next few years. If they nail it, awards and money will both follow.
Day one was finally rolling.
But five minutes in, Joey already hated Rebecca's makeup.
She waved the makeup artist over. "Juno's supposed to be cool. Miniskirts aren't cool. You know what is? Flannel shirt, baggy jeans, zero effort."
The makeup artist held up a soft pink lip gloss. "Little color on the lips?"
"Nope."
Take two.
Rebecca perched on a hallway windowsill, watching the teacher she's crushing on walk past. She side-eyes him hard, then smirks. "Hey, Mr. H, your shirt's half-tucked in the back. Very professional."
The actor (Jason) froze, suddenly awkward. "Juno, class is starting. Shouldn't you be inside?"
Rebecca hopped down, didn't answer, just walked straight-up ditched school.
"Cut!" Joey called, grinning. Rebecca had nailed that punk edge perfectly.
But the camera angle on the dolly was bugging her. She could see on the monitor it was a hair off from what she wanted. Joey walked over to the DP, politely explained the tweak she needed. (She wasn't about to try lifting a 35mm Arri herself; girl knew her limits.)
People always ask why there are so few female directors. Answer: the business used to be brutal on women before indie film blew up.
Back in the day, the only path was to start at the bottom of a crew: PA → script supervisor → third AD → second AD → first AD. Survive that gauntlet, and maybe, maybe a producer would let you direct a tiny movie.
Most women got weeded out way before first AD. Why? The job was physically punishing.
Director says, "Go check if that boat hull works for the shot," you strip down and dive into freezing water.
Director says, "Camera's in the wrong spot," you and the camera op hoist a fifty-pound camera across the set all day.
You spend twelve hours screaming through a bullhorn while the director sips coffee.
Very few women wanted to be treated like pack mules for ten years. (Even Ang Lee started out hauling equipment.)
Then Sundance and the indie boom happened, and suddenly women could write a script, crowdfund or find private money, and just direct. No decade of abuse required.
Back on set, Joey and the DP worked it out, then reshot the scene. It's only film; she'd bought 250 full 400-foot loads of Kodak 5222, way more than any sane person needed, but she'd rather waste stock than run out. Cameron-level over-shooting was her comfort zone.
The final setup of the day was the soul of the movie.
A burning factory lights up the night sky. Sparks drift down like deadly snowflakes. Juno stares into the flames and sees every moment her childhood went up in smoke, every time she wasn't wanted. And for one terrifying second, she loves the emptiness.
Magic hour obsession kicked in hard. Joey waited all day for the perfect sunset, cameras parked at three different heights, eyes glued to the monitors until the sky turned exactly the shade of bruised orange she needed.
She's always been a sucker for golden-hour shots. Even her old, terrible movies got praised for how gorgeous the sunrises and sunsets looked. Give her a wide lens and dying light, and she could make anything look like poetry.
Rebecca killed the scene. The look in her eyes wasn't redemption; it was the thrill of self-destruction. Pure nihilist bliss. Joey thought: No wonder Tom casts her in Mission: Impossible twenty years from now. Guy's got an eye.
Wrap was called.
That's when Joey got the call: the actor playing Mom's old flame just broke his leg. They needed a replacement. Fast.
And they were in the middle of the Valley, the land of adult-film casting couches.
Where the hell was she supposed to find a legit actor out-of-work actor on zero notice?