If the Oscars are the ultimate stamp of approval for American cinema, then the Saturn Awards are the Oscars for sci-fi, horror, and fantasy fans. The Academy has a long history of snubbing genre films, so most die-hard fans put their faith (and their hype) in the Saturns.
Tonight, the red carpet spilled out from the Los Angeles Central Grand Theatre like a river of velvet and flashbulbs. On either side, the lucky fans who'd won the ticket lottery were losing their minds, waving homemade signs and screaming every time a limo door opened.
Charlize Theron floated by in liquid gold. Julia Roberts, Angelina Jolie, Anne Hathaway, Amy Adams; every bombshell in Hollywood showed up and showed out. Lips were red, gowns were couture, and the glamour was dialed to eleven.
But the loudest section of the barricades? All for one man.
Tom Cruise had promised he'd be here as a special guest, and his fans turned out in force. Girls were crying before he even arrived.
Then the screams hit a whole new decibel.
Tom stepped out; black suit, perfect smile; and the entire red carpet basically stopped breathing. Phones shot up like periscopes. LiveJournal and early MySpace were already blowing up:
"60 meters of red carpet and I've been stuck in the same spot for 40 minutes because of Tom Cruise's fan mob."
"I SAW HIM. I'M DEAD."
"He shook my hand. I'm never washing it again."
True to form, Tom took his sweet time; two full hours for a 200-foot walk. He signed, he hugged, he posed with every fan who managed to reach over the barrier. The man is physically incapable of acting like he's above anyone.
Eventually he disappeared inside, and the crowd finally remembered how to blink.
That's when the Source Code team rolled up.
Director Joey Grant, her DP, editor, composer; the whole brain trust.
And suddenly everyone remembered: Source Code was the heavyweight tonight; ten nominations, the clear frontrunner.
Joey stepped out of the car and the energy shifted again.
This was the public's first real look at post-Broadway, post-miracle Joey. She understood red-carpet math perfectly: less is more. Instead of the usual black, white, red, or pink, she went with a soft pistachio-green Christian Dior Haute Couture gown from the 2006 spring collection; delicate rose appliqués blooming across the skirt. Makeup was fresh, lips a classic red, hair down and shining. She looked expensive, effortless, and unmistakably herself.
For an Asian woman in Hollywood; where stylists usually default to safe black or "look-at-me" brights; this was a power move. She glowed without screaming for attention.
The second someone yelled "JOEY GRANT!" the barricade turned.
It wasn't the polite curiosity directors usually get. This was full-on Beatlemania.
Because Joey wasn't just a director anymore. She was the girl who turned a dying Broadway theater into the hottest ticket in America in three months flat. She was the miracle worker. The unicorn. The one-name phenom.
She gave the fans a quick wave and a smile that somehow felt personal to every single person there, then slipped inside.
And immediately got mobbed again; this time by industry people.
Washed-up former A-listers wanted the Meg Ryan career resurrection. Newbies wanted the Emma Stone La La Land rocket ship. Everyone wanted to be in the Joey Grant business.
She smiled, shook hands, and slowly backed away until she found a quiet corner to breathe.
Across the room she spotted Tom holding court, laughing easily with a circle ten people deep. Different vibe; same gravitational pull.
The ceremony itself was a marathon; three and a half hours of speeches, montages, and increasingly drunk acceptance rants.
When it was over, the results were all anyone could talk about.
The Hollywood Reporter dropped the headline before the theater lights were even up:
SOURCE CODE SWEEPS THE SATURNS – 5 WINS INCLUDING BEST PICTURE & DIRECTOR
Best Director, Best Picture, Best Actress, and a handful of tech awards. Exactly what the betting odds predicted, but still electric.
Backstage, Joey did the quickest hit-and-run press line in history. Still holding her trophy, still in that green goddess gown, she looked calm, almost amused.
"I'm thrilled," she told the cameras. "I'm surprised, I'm grateful, and I promise I've got more coming."
A reporter pounced. "More? As in a new movie?"
"Definitely."
"What kind?"
Joey smiled; slow, mysterious, lethal. "Fantasy romance."
The reporter practically screamed into the mic: "Fantasy romance! Casting soon?"
Joey's eyes sparkled. "Still deciding."
Cut. Clip ends.
And just like that, Hollywood lost its collective mind.
Because Joey Grant; the woman who turned unknown theater kids into superstars and dying venues into gold mines; was about to cast her next lead roles.
Agents started dialing. Managers started panicking. Actors who hadn't left their houses in years suddenly remembered they had headshots.
The feeding frenzy was on.
Joey had no idea that one little smile and four tiny words; "still deciding"; just triggered the biggest casting war the town had seen in years.