The echo of that earth-shattering "Fuck!" from the Final Destination internal screening hadn't even fully faded in the Fox building before the marketing department threw money at every corner of the country.
Overnight, Leon, Anne, and the rest of the main cast found themselves in a whirlwind of pain and pleasure.
Their schedules were packed so tight it was hard to breathe.
Leon and Anne started popping up on magazine covers everywhere.
Entertainment Weekly painted them as glamorous, with the headline "Hollywood's New Reaper and His Muse."
The Hollywood Reporter went highbrow: "Leon Donaldson: The Disruptor Redefining Horror Aesthetics."
Even teen magazines singled Anne out, plastering her sunflower-bright smile on the cover with "The Girl Who Survived Final Destination Teaches You How to Sense Danger!"
Leon nearly choked on his coffee when he saw that one.
The press junkets came one after another.
From morning news shows to late-night talk shows, they hustled between studios like they were running a gauntlet.
On Good Morning America, Leon explained the "death's design" concept with a straight face.
On The Late Late Show, he had to roll with the host's goofy quips like, "So, I gotta watch out next time I shave, huh?"
He even had to pretend to be spooked by a green screen on an MTV Movie Awards pre-show.
Anne's job was to be sweet and scream, reenacting a few of her terrified movie expressions on Jimmy Kimmel Live to trigger a wave of maternal "awws" from the audience.
Then there were the group activities for the Final Destination cast.
They'd pile into radio stations, chaotic as a farmer's market, or sit in a neat row for Premiere magazine, pretending to be one big happy family.
Tony Todd only had to growl a line from the movie in his bass-cannon voice to make the room feel ten degrees colder.
Amanda Detmer, true to her character's bubbly vibe, just smiled like a perfect sweetheart.
As Leon put it: "It's like dating ten people at once and having to remember what each one likes. I'm so wiped I'm practically cramping."
In public, Leon and Anne were "Alex and Claire," their every glance vetted by the PR team.
But once they ducked into the van or slipped behind the heavy hotel room door, it was a different story.
Adrenaline still pumping, exhaustion hit like a tidal wave.
In those moments, a quiet hug, a wordless look, or just splitting a pizza while trashing a host's dumb questions became the best stress relief.
Anne would flop onto the couch, whining, "My face is frozen from smiling! Professor Leon, how is being a star this exhausting?"
Leon would pull her close, his fingers kneading her stiff shoulders with just the right pressure, while throwing in a jab: "Be grateful, Miss Claire. Plenty of people would kill to be this tired. Now perk up that smile—People magazine's waiting for your perfect grin tomorrow."
"Oh, shut up!" Anne would laugh, smacking him with a throw pillow before snuggling into his arms.
Those fleeting moments of warmth were the only bright spots in the grueling publicity blitz.
With Final Destination's final cut locked, the test screening arrived.
This time, the audience wasn't Fox Searchlight execs or crew—it was razor-tongued critics and randomly selected lucky viewers.
Among them, one figure stood out: a slightly heavy, middle-aged man with black-framed glasses and a serious expression—Roger Ebert, one of America's most influential critics, known for his sharp insight and brutal honesty.
Next to him sat Gene Siskel, whose "thumbs-up-or-down" reviews could make or break a film.
Before the lights dimmed, Ebert pulled out his signature notebook and pen, his face calm.
The movie started. Alex jolted awake in the airport lounge.
Ebert leaned forward slightly, his pen hovering but not touching the page.
When Todd got splashed with coffee, Ebert gave a barely perceptible headshake, as if to say, "Cheap scare."
But as the plane took off and the first ominous turbulence hit, Ebert leaned in further.
His pen tapped the paper once.
The explosion hit.
Even Ebert flinched, his body jerking back against the seat.
His sharp inhale cut through the brief silence.
He didn't write immediately, instead adjusting his glasses as if to confirm what he'd just seen.
Death's hunt began.
Todd's bathroom demise locked Ebert's brows in a tight frown—not of disdain, but intense focus.
He scribbled quickly: "Bathroom, chain of coincidence, executed with precision?"
Teri's character got obliterated by a bus. Ebert's pen froze for three full seconds, his eyes glued to the screen.
Then, slowly—almost reverently—he drew a massive question mark in his notebook, followed by "Public execution? Symbolic weight?"
As Alex and Claire hunted for patterns in death's order, Ebert's handwriting grew frantic.
The concept hooked him. Words like "List? Sequence? Inescapable fate?" filled the page.
When Billy got decapitated by a glass pane, Ebert yanked off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose as if overwhelmed by the relentless, malicious precision.
When he put them back on, his eyes held a stunned glint.
The climactic showdown at home, with death's chain reaction, left the entire theater breathless.
Ebert's pen stopped completely. He was lost in the screen, gripped by the desperate struggle against an invisible force, his notebook clenched tightly in his hand.
Finally, the Paris Gucci sign crashed down, and the screen went black.
The theater was dead silent.
Ebert, like everyone else, sat frozen, staring into the void.
The lights came up slowly.
Unlike others who clapped or chatted, Ebert stayed quiet, staring at his barely touched notebook for a long time.
Then, deliberately, almost solemnly, he wrote two words in the center of the page:
"Precise. Ruthless."
He seemed to find his clarity, his pen now flying, nearly tearing the paper.
"…Not reliant on cheap gore, but built on suffocating suspense rooted in physical laws…"
"…An exquisite metaphor for fate's unpredictability and the hidden dangers of modern life…"
"…Leon's performance anchors the emotional core, while Anne is the perfect vessel for terror…"
"…James Wong's masterclass in pacing…"
As the room erupted in applause and chatter, Roger Ebert, at the end of his rapid-fire notes, drew a bold, unmistakable symbol—
A big, upward thumb.
He closed his notebook, let out a long, deep breath, like he'd just run a marathon, and stood to join the applause. His gaze swept over the celebrated crew, his eyes complex, blending professional admiration with a faint smile.
The next day, Ebert and Siskel recorded their TV review show early.
Word leaked that the famously bickering critics were, for once, in complete agreement about Final Destination.
Ebert's opening line, quoted on air, was:
"Forget every horror movie you've seen. Final Destination is something else. It's smarter, crueler, and… more real."
That review sent Fox execs into a frenzy.
Tom, clutching a faxed preview of the critique, was practically vibrating with excitement, his hands shaking…
The real test for the film was finally here.
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