"Hey, could you rate this movie for us real quick? Just fill this out."
Outside pretty much every theater, the second a movie lets out, you'll see staff handing out these little scorecards to the crowd shuffling out the doors. If people loved the flick, they're usually happy to stop and mark it down.
A means "nailed it," B is "pretty good, I'm happy," and C is bad news; basically the kiss of death for box office. You almost never see anybody circle D or E.
This particular survey came from a Las Vegas-based market-research outfit called Emascore. Their whole gig is predicting how much a movie's gonna make, based on real exit polls from regular audiences.
Unlike the test screenings the big studios run, Emascore waits until people have paid and watched the finished film in a normal theater. Their final box-office forecasts, built off word-of-mouth, are scary accurate.
In Joey's last life, he still remembered a few of their wildest hits. Back in 2007, Transformers pulled an A from Emascore. The owner, Mintz, called $319 million domestic; actual number? Exactly $319 million.
2010's The Lost Kingdom got a C; they predicted $48 million, came in at $49 million. G-Type Prophet, another C, called for $57 million, landed at $60 million. And the classic: Mall Cop Supreme with a C; they said $24 million on the dot, and that's precisely what it did.
The one that really made jaws drop was 2009's The Hangover. Nobody thought that raunchy comedy would crack $100 million, but Emascore said $228 million domestic. It ended up doing an insane $277 million.
Of course, Hollywood's mythical crystal ball doesn't just look at letter grades. They feed everything into a massive model: rating, genre, audience demographics, how similar movies with similar scores performed; the works.
Emascore's data-crunching is insanely complicated, but the questions they actually ask people are dead simple. Besides the letter grade, it's just gender, age, "Would you buy or rent the DVD/Blu-ray?" and "Why'd you come see it; star power, director, trailer?"
That's why nobody in Hollywood (whether it's the six major studios or some scrappy indie) dares ignore an Emascore report. It's not just a prediction; it's instant street-level buzz on steroids.
Emascore is the purest, realest snapshot of audience love you can get. Their numbers are gold, and the marketing departments treat an A-grade like a nuke they can drop whenever they want. High early scores? Pour gas on the ad budget. Bad scores? Quietly let it die.
So the second a movie opens, every producer (even studio heads at the big six) sits glued to their inbox waiting for that one email from Emascore.
Right now, Joey was one of those nervous wrecks, smashing refresh on her laptop.
She was waiting for the Juno score.
Meanwhile, on the other end of that email, inside the Emascore offices in Vegas…
Truth is, the whole operation basically runs on two guys: the boss, Mintz, and his son. Son handles the field work, Dad crunches the numbers and makes the calls.
Mintz was flipping through the freshly compiled Juno exit-poll summary his kid just handed him.
Pages of formulas and metrics that look like quantum physics to outsiders, but to Mintz it's just bedtime reading; he's been eating this stuff for decades.
He skimmed the report, already getting that gut feeling, then started punching numbers into the computer. Casually, he asked his son, "You actually watch Juno when you were out collecting?"
"Nah, just had the crew grab the cards."
Mintz chuckled with a hint of glee. "Who would've thought the little movie everybody wrote off this season…"
His son froze mid-motion and shot him a look. "Wait, what? Juno tanked its opening weekend. People are saying it'll be out of theaters in two weeks, total gross under ten mil."
Mintz let out a full belly laugh, dripping with "I told you so." "People are saying? Who's 'people'? Anybody in this town got a better track record than me?"
The son glanced at his dad's screen. "So what's the final grade, Pops?"
Mintz smirked like he was about to drop the mic. "Guess."
The kid thought for a second. "Little indie dramedy like this; three times the budget and you're in the black. Word-of-mouth's been solid, so maybe bump it a little. Call it three million budget, so… fifteen million total? That's already a massive win. After the split with theaters, taxes, marketing; still a killer profit."
Mintz just stared at him with those crafty old eyes and said nothing, mysterious grin growing.
The son got antsy. "Come on, did I nail it or what?"
"You're not wrong," Mintz said, "but you forgot the most important part; what grade I actually gave it."
"Given the rave reviews from critics and the fancy-pants sites, I'm thinking a shocking A-."
Mintz practically shouted, "Wrong! Dead wrong, son. The formula spit out a straight A."
His son nearly fell off the chair. "Dad, no way! We've given out fewer than twenty A's ever, and every single one was a billion-dollar-legit cultural phenomenon! You sure you didn't fat-finger something?"
"I triple-checked. This movie's an A. We all underestimated it; me included. It's one of the best pictures in years."
"So… box office?" the son asked, voice shaking.
Mintz plugged in the final variables. The number that popped up made even him blink twice.
He whispered, "Two hundred million."
The kid legit almost hit the floor. "Two hundred million worldwide? That's gotta be $130–150 domestic easy. A three-million-dollar movie making two hundred million? Dad, you sure this won't go down as the biggest miss of your career?"
Mintz rubbed his eyes under his glasses like he couldn't believe it either. "Trust me, I'm asking myself the same thing. Unknown director, B-list cast, tiny budget; how the hell does it add up to two hundred million? But the model doesn't lie. It says two hundred, clear as day."
He sighed and leaned back. "Hollywood's gone crazy these days. Or maybe I'm just getting too old for this roller-coaster crap."
He wasn't wrong about the crazy season.
One of the big teen flicks, Hilary Duff's Basket of Kids, cost peanuts and he had it pegged for a monstrous $120 million; looking more and more like the year's biggest sleeper.
Everybody thought Disney was nuts dumping $130 million into some pirate movie nobody asked for, but he called at least $460 million worldwide. At the rate Pirates of the Caribbean was going, $560 million wasn't out of the question.
Cold Mountain spent nine figures, booked Nicole Kidman and Jude Law, gunning hard for Oscars; he predicted a flop. Opening weekend already looked rough; probably wouldn't even hit nine figures.
But Juno… on his scale, its dark-horse potential was right up there with Basket of Kids and Pirates. Sure, the profit multiple wouldn't touch Pirates, but still.
The opening weekend was pathetic, though. Could it really climb that high?
Screw it. The man trusted his numbers. With the stone-cold confidence of a guy who's been right for thirty years, he hit send on the email: Juno; Grade A.
…
Ding-dong.
New mail.
Joey ripped open the inbox.
"A."
She whispered it like a prayer.
Pure, explosive joy.
Joy didn't even cover it.
An A. Everybody in Hollywood knows what an A from Emascore means.
Bluebird Pictures was about to plaster "Emascore A Rating!" on every poster, bus, and TV spot known to man. Industry folks would notice. Regular moviegoers would hear the buzz and show up.
It's a chain reaction.
That little letter was about to strap a rocket to Juno's ass and light the fuse.
Next weekend's box-office numbers? Buckle up.
A miracle was coming.