Juno had been shooting for about two weeks and was already wrapping. The main reason? The completion bond guy was a total bulldog. He shadowed Joey like a hawk every single day, acting like he'd get a fat bonus for every hour they finished early.
Joey couldn't stand the nagging, so Ulster went into overdrive—long days, extra takes, whatever it took to stay ahead.
Right now the crew was in the studio, knocking out one of the final scenes.
Juno's grandma, obsessed with getting white ribbons for her own funeral, insists on going to the store the night before Christmas. She wanders off and gets lost in the snow. Cops finally find her.
Juno and her mom rush to the station.
The officer looks up from his notepad, eyeing the two women who don't look anything alike. "What's your relationship to the old lady?"
Juno opens her mouth automatically—"She's…" She always separates herself from her mom in introductions, never says the word daughter, just lets people figure it out.
But this time she stops cold.
After everything that's happened, something clicks. Family suddenly means something again. She moves her mouth a couple times, hesitating.
Her mom, Joyce, glances over, eyes wide, hopeful—like she already knows what's coming.
Then Juno just says it, clean and confident: "We're her family."
It feels like the ice between mother and daughter finally cracks.
Everyone on set—grips, PAs, lighting guys—lets out this collective breath, totally sucked in by the performances. A couple people even smile like they just watched real life.
Joey's grinning behind the monitor. She picked the right people. No question.
Little Miss Sunshine, The Savages, Sideways—all those great small movies nailed that particular flavor of loser-family comedy, but none of them would've worked without killer acting. Joey was dead certain Juno was going to stand right next to them and shine just as bright, maybe even punch above its weight against the big studio films.
One more location after this and they were done. Wrapped.
Which meant Joey's brain immediately switched to the next headache: editing.
The guy who cut Harvard Days? Absolute disaster in hindsight.
In Hollywood, the editor is fifty percent of the movie. Shooting is the director's playground; post is where the editor either makes you a genius or buries you.
When you're on set, everybody's trying to match the storyboards in your head. Editors never see that stuff. They get a hard drive full of random takes and build the film however they think "the audience will follow." They can rearrange the whole story—beginning at the end, middle first, whatever feels right to them.
Back in the film days you pretty much had to follow script order because you were physically cutting negatives. Digital changed everything. Now editors can go full non-linear: upside-down, sideways, whatever.
That's why half the big releases have two versions—theatrical (usually the studio/editor cut) and the director's cut, which sometimes feel like completely different movies.
Ridley Scott's Kingdom of Heaven bombed hard in theaters. Then the director's cut leaked and people were like, "Wait, this is actually good." Even Ridley doesn't always get final cut.
Only gods like Cameron or Spielberg are untouchable. Or you pull a Tarantino and threaten to burn the negative if they touch Reservoir Dogs.
Indies usually don't have that problem—no studio's gonna hijack your little movie. But Joey still needed an editor who got her.
There are three kinds of director-editor relationships (if you actually give a damn):
1. Soulmates—"qin and se in harmony." They read each other's minds, finish each other's sentences. You watch the movie and forget to judge it because you're just living in it.
2. Solid marriage—"husband leads, wife follows." Both are pros. The director's vision is dominant, the editor executes it perfectly. The movie's technically flawless, hits every beat, but maybe lacks that last spark of magic.
3. Doomed fling—"married halfway." Strong-willed editor takes over, director caves, and the final film is no longer what the director shot. Looks decent on paper, but something's off. You leave the theater going, "Why didn't they linger on her walking away?" or "That line was perfect—why cut to the other character?" That's the editor's movie now, not yours.
Then there's the fourth kind—no one cares. Committee films. "The Package." Money guys, fame guys, and pretentious rich guys all throw in cash for different reasons. Nobody actually loves the movie; they love what it might get them. Most mediocre blockbusters fall into this bucket.
Joey's Juno was not a package deal. She refused to settle for anything less than soulmates. And if she couldn't find that, she'd rather do it herself and bring in a consultant.
Juno was a straight-up character drama—no crazy twists, no VFX-heavy sequences. Mostly linear storytelling. Editing it wasn't rocket science. With digital footage, a fast computer, and Final Cut (or Avid), one determined director could absolutely handle it.
Decision made.
This time, Joey was cutting her own damn movie.