"Tom, that young director from the other day (Joey) really wants to meet up and thank you for the coffee you bought her last time. Should I go ahead and pass her your number?" Jack Hanson got the call from Joey first thing in the morning and figured he'd better check with Tom before handing out Tom Cruise's private contact info.
Tom was in West Hollywood shooting Collateral, had just gotten back to the hotel, and was about to hop in the shower when the phone rang. He was clearly not in the mood for small stuff.
He sighed. "Jack, I can tell you like the girl, but sorry, man. If the tabs catch me grabbing coffee with some random twenty-something, they'll spin it into God-knows-what kind of trashy headline. That's the last thing I need."
The guy's spent decades keeping his nose spotless; it's not just talk. The paparazzi have tried everything and he never gives them an inch.
Jack scratched his head, stuck in the middle. He hated letting Joey down (the kid was crazy talented), so he tried one more time. "Alright, how about this: I'll have her call you real quick just to say thanks over the phone. That cool?"
Tom shrugged. "Fine. Just… not between 7 and 10 p.m. any night this week. I've got plans with a woman every evening."
Jack's gossip radar went off instantly. "Hold up. Mr. Squeaky-Clean Tom Cruise has a woman staying over the whole week? Who's the lucky visitor getting the VIP treatment?"
Tom laughed and shut him down. "Relax, it's my sister."
"Got it, got it. I'm on it."
After hanging up, Tom actually felt a tiny twinge of manners. The girl obviously looked up to him; it'd be rude to miss her call. So he parked himself by the phone like a high-schooler waiting for prom night. Sure enough, a couple minutes later an unknown number popped up.
He picked up, voice warm. "Miss Grant, I didn't expect you to be this polite."
Joey sounded soft, maybe a little shy at first. "I'm sorry to bother you. I just really wanted to thank you, Mr. Cruise. That talk we had, and you picking up the check… it meant a lot. Since meeting up isn't convenient, I figured a phone call was the least I could do."
Her voice settled into something calm and smooth, like moonlight on water. The nerves melted away fast.
Tom smiled into the phone. "Hey, I appreciate it. Honestly, that's plenty."
There was a tiny pause; Joey figured the conversation was wrapping up.
Then he surprised her. "So Juno is killing it. What's next? Got any ideas for your follow-up?"
She hadn't expected him to care. "Yeah, actually. I'm already deep into the next one."
"Really? Color me curious. Lay it on me—what's the genre? Another indie drama? Feels like that's the lane for a female director like you."
"Nope." She paused for effect. "Sci-fi."
Tom actually laughed out loud. This girl had guts. Fresh off an art-house smash and she's jumping straight into sci-fi? She'd never even touched the genre.
"Wow. You don't mess around. Love a challenge, huh?"
"It's not really about the challenge," she said. "It's a story I've been carrying around for years. Just finally feels like the right time."
Tom walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, poured himself a glass of ice water, and leaned against the glass. The whole L.A. night glittered below: the beach, the desert edge, palm trees swaying along Santa Monica pier, the observatory lights twinkling in the distance, and that perfect spray of stars you only get on the West Coast.
He took a sip. "You writing it yourself?"
"Yep."
He smiled to himself. Kid's ambition was inflating faster than a Hollywood ego. Instead of locking in her awards-friendly indie cred, she's leaping into uncharted waters. Still, he kept his tone encouraging. "Soft sci-fi, hard sci-fi, or total geek fest?"
"Hard sci-fi."
He actually snorted. "Hard sci-fi on your second movie? Those things usually eat nine-figure budgets for breakfast. You already got financing?"
Hard sci-fi lives or dies on visuals; if the effects look cheap, audiences bail.
Joey didn't flinch. "Not yet. But this one doesn't need hundreds of millions. Twenty million tops."
Tom shook his head, grinning at the skyline. Either she was naïve or flat-out fearless. Twenty mil for hard sci-fi? Even veterans don't pull that off.
He couldn't help nudging her a little. "You sure? I think you're perfect for the awards route. Juno-style heartfelt dramas—that's your wheelhouse."
She laughed, not buying it. "The awards route? Mr. Cruise, you've been in this game forever. You know the Oscars aren't out there hunting for the year's best movie. Movies are out there twisting themselves into pretzels to kiss the Academy's ring. I'm not interested in that right now. And honestly? Not everybody's built for it. You're not."
He chuckled. "Yeah, everybody loves reminding me."
"Because you're too good-looking!" she shot back, teasing. "You take one sip of coffee and the internet screams 'he's doing it sexy on purpose.' How are you supposed to win over a bunch of old Academy fogeys with that?"
Tom ran a hand through his hair, squinting and smiling. "Fair point. Thanks for the compliment, I guess."
He had his own private thoughts on the subject, but he wasn't about to spill them to some kid he barely knew. Most critics just parroted the same tired lines anyway; none of them ever really got him.
Then Joey cut straight through the noise. "Look, what people say out there isn't the full story. You've got your own code. Deep down you hate the whole 'ugly-up and suffer for the art' game some actors play to bag a statue. You're not chasing awards because you don't need them to prove you matter, and because you refuse to play that particular game."
Dead silence on his end.
That was the first time anyone had ever said it out loud, and nailed it exactly.
The narrative out there was that he'd tried for Oscars a few times, struck out, and quit. Wrong. After Jerry Maguire lost Best Actor (a performance he knew was killer), he realized the Academy just didn't like funny, didn't like handsome, and definitely didn't like handsome guys being funny. The unofficial rule seemed to be: if you want gold, you better gain fifty pounds, lose fifty pounds, slap on a fake nose, or play someone miserable. Charlize Theron uglied herself up for Monster. Julia Roberts ditched the glamour for Erin Brockovich. Nicole prosthetics'd her nose crooked. McConaughey and Bale starved themselves into skeletons.
That whole "destroy yourself for the role" thing? He wasn't about it. Never had been.
Joey kept going, right into the heart of it. "You didn't give up on the Oscars. You gave up on playing the 'make myself ugly and tragic' game to win one."
Tom exhaled slowly. "You're the first person who's ever said that out loud. I gotta be honest—I did not expect to hear it from you."
She laughed softly. "Bias is everywhere. The pretty tax is real. Half the industry thinks if you've got a decent face you can't act until you peel off a layer of skin to prove it. You just hate that standard, so you do the roles you love and let the work speak."
Another quiet beat. Then he opened up, just a little. "I tried, you know. A lot of people think I don't care anymore. But hearing someone actually get it… from a twenty-something director, no less? You're young, but you see more than most."
He'd underestimated her. Big time.
Still, he wasn't about to co-sign the sci-fi dream. She was rushing things and was gonna face-plant if she wasn't careful.
Joey glanced at the clock. "Anyway, I've already kept you way too long. Thank you again, Mr. Cruise. Seriously."
"No worries at all. Take care."
Click.
Joey flopped back onto the couch, let out the biggest breath, and grinned at the ceiling. One huge item checked off the list.
Time to get the next movie rolling.
For real this time.