After Juno wrapped, Joey threw a low-key dinner for the crew that doubled as a wrap party/possible farewell forever.
Nobody knew if the movie would ever see the light of day; whether it would sell, when it would sell, or if it would just join the mountain of indie films rotting on some studio's shelf.
Joey wasn't much of a drinker, but she matched Rebecca shot for shot and had a blast anyway.
At one point Rebecca leaned in, cheeks pink from the wine. "Joey, you know my idol's Tom Cruise, right? Think I'll ever get to act with him one day?"
Joey brushed Rebecca's bangs off her forehead and grinned. "If anyone else asked, I'd hedge. But you? One hundred percent."
(Twelve years from now you'll be the female lead in Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation, girl. Just wait.)
Rebecca beamed and slammed the rest of her drink. "Your turn; who's your celebrity crush?"
Joey laughed, a little embarrassed. "Same as you. Tom Cruise."
"No way!" Rebecca squealed. "Was it Lestat in Interview with the Vampire? Ethan Hunt? Or are you old-school Top Gun?"
None of the above. Her favorite was the silver-haired, motor-mouth hitman with a heart in Collateral; pure flavor, zero ego, proof the man could act his ass off. But that movie doesn't come out until '04, so she went with the next best thing.
"Jerry Maguire," she said. "That guy who gets mocked, ignored, fired, and still keeps that ridiculous hope alive; keeps swinging no matter what. That's the most charming, most inspiring version of him. He got nominated for Best Actor; closest he ever got to the Oscar. Still got robbed."
Rebecca's eyes went wide. "Wow, I never pegged you for the rom-com vibe. Though it is kind of inspirational. Lately the only romance he's done is that Vanilla Sky thing with Penélope Cruz."
Joey smiled, nostalgic. "I just love the roles where he plays it light and breezy. Give me effortless charm over brooding hero any day." She paused, then cracked up. "I actually have a private nickname for him. Guess."
"Uh… Pretty Tom?"
Joey lost it. "Close. Me and my friend Renee have been calling him Short King for, like, fifteen years."
Rebecca howled. "Oh my God, if he heard that… though honestly the man's been roasted for his height so long he's probably immune."
The wrap "banquet" ended in a storm of laughter and hugs. Joey went home to her Santa Monica Canyon house and locked herself in the editing bay.
She wasn't a complicated editor; she had the footage, Premiere, a clear memory of the final cut that made the original Juno a phenomenon, and six trash-can Mac Pros with D700 cards humming like jet engines.
Her hired editor came by every day for tech support, but the great editors were either legends or way out of her budget.
Juno lives or dies on rhythm; how long you hold on a reaction shot, when to punch the joke, when to swap a line because the gag fell flat. Rebecca and the rest of the cast had given her gold; the problem wasn't "how do I salvage this?" It was "which perfect take do I have the heart to leave on the floor?"
She worked back-to-front like most directors; the good stuff always shows up after the actors loosen up.
One month of monk-mode later, she had a locked picture.
She farmed out ADR, music, titles, and VFX to the same post houses she'd used before. Another month after that, the final cut was done. She watched it top to tail, made her notes, tweaked a few frames, and called it finished.
Now the terrifying part: selling it.
First instinct for any indie filmmaker is Sundance or the festival circuit. Except she'd already dragged the old version of Harvard Lives through half those fests and got nothing but polite rejection letters. Rules say you can't submit a reshoot anyway, and her name was toxic in indie circles. Most programmers would see "Joey Grant" and toss the screener straight into the trash.
So festivals were out.
That left cold-calling distributors; mostly the real indie companies, because the six majors (Paramount, Warner, Universal, Sony, Disney, Fox) wouldn't touch a no-name, low-budget teen comedy with a ten-foot pole.
Lionsgate likes horror, Summit likes franchises, Weinstein likes Oscar bait. Joey was still trying to figure out who might bite when Jack Hansen rang.
"Hey, Joey, heard Juno's done? Got a plan yet?"
She was surrounded by printouts of studio logos. "Zero plan, honestly. Skipping festivals. I'm gonna start hitting distributors directly."
"Perfect. Remember the contract? We get final say on any deal, we sit in on every meeting, and my name goes on the producer line; wink wink."
Joey rolled her eyes at the ceiling. "How could I forget?"
Jack laughed. "Tomorrow, bring DVDs. I already set up a few screenings. Couple places are curious about the material. We'll see what they think once they watch it."
"Thank you, seriously. I'll burn the discs tonight. Meet you on Sunset tomorrow?"
"That's the plan. Catch you then."
She hung up and started burning copies.
Having Jack on board actually gave her a fighting chance; the guy had real connections, and now that his name was on it he had skin in the game. He'd push.
She, on the other hand, wasn't going to see a dime. Most of the money would go straight to Jack and Tom Cruise. Whatever scraps were left would pay off the house mortgage, and then she'd be broke again. Whatever.
All that mattered was getting it seen.
If Juno hit, her next movie would have investors lining up. No more begging. No more crawling.
More than that; if Juno worked, it meant this second life wasn't just a rerun of the first disaster. It meant the dream might actually happen this time.