Scarlett Johansson called or sent long, chatty texts to Leon almost every day, spilling details about tagging along with Sofia Coppola at the film festival.
"God, Leon, every corner here looks like a painting, but it's so intense every day."
"Today was the premiere. I wore that champagne gown, and my heels nearly snapped my ankles…"
"Sofia was a wreck, lips sealed tight, not saying a word. Bill was his usual self, cracking lame jokes, but I'd bet his palms were sweating…"
Leon would listen during breaks in the editing room or after a long day, sprawled on his apartment couch.
Her voice carried a mix of excitement, exhaustion, and a growing confidence.
"When the screening started, it was dead quiet in the dark…"
"You could hear everyone breathing… then the lights came up, and the applause…"
"I couldn't tell if the clapping was just polite or if they really loved it. Sofia looked like she was about to cry…"
"Some European critics came up afterward, saying stuff I barely understood… Sofia got it, though, kept nodding…"
Leon would chime in occasionally: "What about you? What'd they say about you?"
Scarlett's voice would pause, then carry a hint of shy pride: "Someone said my face… it tells a story on camera. Like I hid all that confusion and… desire in the silence."
"Really? Half the time, I didn't even know what I was doing. Just followed Sofia's lead to 'be there.'"
"They weren't wrong," Leon said firmly. "You're perfect for Sofia's lens."
He'd share bits about Final Destination's promo grind—how James Wong was driving the sound team nuts with his nitpicking in post-production or how Anne Hathaway cracked up trying to look terrified at a green screen during a photo shoot.
But he was careful, sidestepping anything that might spark unnecessary comparisons or suspicions.
These transatlantic chats, tethered by a thin digital thread, linked their wildly different worlds and headspaces.
Oddly, the distance made their talks feel purer.
Through Scarlett's voice, Leon could almost taste the unique vibe of European arthouse cinema.
…
In Fox Searchlight's private screening room, the rough cut of Final Destination played for its most critical audience yet: Fox Searchlight execs, marketing, and distribution teams.
The lights dimmed completely.
The massive screen became the only light source, rolling the opening credits with an eerie metallic screech.
Onscreen, the airport terminal glowed almost too brightly.
Alex jolted upright in his seat, pupils shrinking.
"Fuck! What the hell's wrong with you?!"
His burly friend Todd yelped as his coffee cup tipped, hot liquid splashing his jeans.
Alex didn't seem to hear, grabbing Todd's wrist so hard the guy winced: "It's not a dream… I saw it. Two minutes after takeoff, the left engine explodes, the wing snaps—we're all burned alive!"
His voice was hoarse, laced with absolute certainty and fear, clashing chillingly with the sweet, boarding-call voiceover in the background.
Carter, the hothead, shoved through the crowd, yanking Alex's collar: "I worked three months for this Paris ticket, and you're freaking out over a damn nightmare?!"
When he flung off his girlfriend Terry's attempt to calm him, she stumbled, knocking over a luggage cart—crash! Bags spilled everywhere.
One toppled suitcase clearly displayed a "180" tag.
…
A few gasps rippled through the screening room.
…
Meanwhile, Anne Hathaway's Claire crouched to help a janitor wipe up a spill.
The camera zoomed on the puddle—its reflection warped eerily, morphing into the outline of a burning plane!
The edit was razor-sharp. As Claire gasped, the shot cut to an X-ray machine at security, where a skull image flickered briefly on the luggage scan!
…
"Ah!" A female exec let out a short scream, clapping a hand over her mouth. The surreal hint hit harder than any gore.
Even Tom Rothman let out a soft "Tch," leaning back slightly.
…
13:45:55
The screen pulsed with ominous signs.
When teacher Valerie checked her boarding pass, the massive flight info board behind her glitched wildly, every "180" flight turning blood-red.
A giant perfume ad loomed overhead—the model's captivating eyes began oozing thick, black liquid, like weeping tar!
The sweet boarding announcement crackled with static, interrupted by a faint, garbled French countdown.
Suddenly, Billy pointed at a maintenance ladder's shadow outside, voice shaking: "Does that… look like a coffin?"
As the crowd fell silent, the shadow shifted with the clouds, slowly breaking into six distinct pieces.
…
The screening room was dead quiet, save for the sound of someone swallowing hard. The eerie imagery sent chills down spines.
Alan Levin leaned toward James, whispering, "That sound design… unreal!"
Marketing's bald head, Tom Stapleton, slapped his thigh, his voice cutting through the silence: "Six pieces! For the six deaths! Brilliant! The audience is gonna lose it over this symbolism—talk about buzz!"
…
13:53:40
Ground crew stepped in, roughly dragging Alex by the arm.
He thrashed, his necklace snapping—a delicate metal plane pendant hit the floor, its glass face shattering, the hands frozen at 13:55.
In the chaos, Claire (Anne) was pulled away, casting a final glance at the boarding gate.
Through the plane's door window, passenger Trenton buckled his seatbelt, oblivious to a twisted, shadowy handprint forming on the back of his neck—then vanishing.
…
"Ah!" More gasps this time. This wasn't just a hint—it was death's tangible mark.
The fear hit its peak. Everyone held their breath, sensing the disaster was inevitable.
…
13:55:00
Onscreen, Alex, now outside the terminal's glass barrier, pounded desperately on the cold surface.
In the background, the Boeing 747's massive frame glided away from the gate, its engine roar muffled through the glass, a low, heart-pounding hum that hit the audience square in the chest.
The camera cut rapidly between Alex's anguished face and the plane's smooth taxi.
It sped down the runway, landing gear retracting, as if mocking Alex's "crazy" warnings.
13:57:00
Two minutes after takeoff.
The plane climbed, shrinking into the clouds, looking perfectly fine.
In the terminal, Carter flipped Alex an insulting gesture.
Bang!!! A piercing, metallic snap—followed by a sizzling crackle!
Black smoke and sparks erupted from the left engine!
The plane shuddered. Inside, lights flickered wildly, screams erupted, oxygen masks dropped.
"Left engine! Left engine failure!"
The pilot's panicked voice mixed with blaring alarms, slamming through the sound system into every viewer's ears.
…
The screening room jolted—several people nearly leapt from their seats. Laura sucked in a sharp breath, her coffee cup almost slipping.
…
13:57:30
The engine failure was just the start, like the first domino falling.
Flames surged, engulfing the engine compartment.
The mounting brackets warped and snapped under the heat and stress.
The burning engine tore free from the wing, plummeting like a meteor!
The wing, unbalanced and strained, let out a teeth-grinding groan, twisting and breaking at the root. The fuel tank ripped open, meeting the flames—
A massive, indescribable orange fireball exploded, swallowing the wing and half the fuselage!
Sound drowned in pure light and heat. The screen filled with blinding white and rolling flames.
Then—BOOM!!! A deafening blast hit, like a sledgehammer to the chest.
The sound system's low-frequency rumble made the screening room's leather seats tremble.
The plane's wreckage spun and tumbled downward, debris scattering like fireworks, trailing long black smoke against the cruelly blue sky.
…
"Oh, shit! No!" someone growled.
The cascading, catastrophic chain reaction left scalps tingling.
Some covered their eyes but peeked through their fingers.
Men gaped, mouths open, stunned by the spectacle of destruction.
Alan Levin held his breath, eyes glued to the screen.
Muted gasps and murmurs filled the room.
Tom Rothman's fingers tapped the armrest unconsciously, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
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