"Oh, that was amazing!"
As Martin and Jessica finally kissed on the big screen, applause filled the theater.
Martin leaned in and whispered to Anne Fletcher, "Congratulations, Anne. You did it."
"Thank you, thank you!" Anne replied, her voice shaking with emotion, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
She was the kind of woman who just couldn't seem to make it big in Hollywood.
To be honest, her dance performance in Bring It On had been absolutely stunning—so much so that she had outshone the lead actress.
But no one had ever cast her in a major role.
She was always stuck as an extra, a dance double, or a minor character with a few lines.
Now, at 37, she knew that if she didn't break through soon, she would be left with no choice but to retire from the industry—go home, become a housewife, and raise kids.
She glanced sideways at Martin, who was still watching the movie with rapt attention.
Luckily, someone had recognized her talent.
Someone had given her the chance to direct her first movie.
And it looked like the film was about to succeed.
Her career was finally about to take off.
"If only I were ten years younger..." she thought wistfully before turning back to the big screen.
The movie was reaching its climax.
When the male and female leads performed their fusion of ballet and street dance, the entire audience was stunned.
This choreography had Martin's touch all over it—his artistic vision was simply leagues beyond anyone else in this world.
With his input, he and the film's top choreographers had crafted a street dance routine that was far more visually striking than the original.
It combined power and elegance.
It had rhythm, energy, and a fluid beauty that captivated the audience.
Excited cheers, whistles, and applause echoed throughout the theater.
In the darkness, Jessica reached for Martin's hand, her voice carrying a hint of emotion.
"We did it again, didn't we, darling?"
He ran his fingers over her smooth forearm and murmured, "Yes, we did. You're going to be a big star, Jess."
He knew what Jessica wanted.
And he was more than willing to give it to her.
Every succubus was generous with their favorite "collectibles."
Jenny was still bouncing with excitement, her golden-brown hair bouncing along with her steps.
"Mom! Mom! Martin's dancing was amazing! I want to learn, too!"
"Mom! Mom! I'm so jealous of Jessica. She's so lucky to be in Martin's movie."
"Mom! Mom! Do you think I should become an actress when I grow up? I want to be in Martin's movies!"
Jenny's mother didn't say anything.
She just stroked her daughter's head lovingly, a gentle smile on her face.
Jenny's reaction was just one of many among the audience.
The yearning to be just as dazzling as the dancers in the movie.
Online reviews were already pouring in.
"This was awesome! Gave me the same feeling as when I watched Breakin' as a kid—makes me want to learn street dance!"
"Oh my God, Martin is so hot. When he lifted his shirt and showed those abs—I think I just ascended."
"I LOVE Jessica. Her body is incredible. And that face? Gorgeous. I'm announcing it now—Jessica is my wife."
"Dude above, you're delusional. Jessica is MY wife."
"Shut up, both of you. She's mine."
"LOL, did any of you even ask Jessica? Or Martin? She's clearly Martin's girl."
"Wait, I thought Martin's girl was Nicole Kidman?"
"Who said Martin can only have one girl?"
"By the way, anyone know what style of street dance Martin was doing in that solo?"
"I dance street, and honestly, I think it's original. Neither I nor my coach have ever seen those moves before."
"Who cares what style it is? It looked cool as hell!"
"Who else wants to watch it again?"
"Let's hit the midnight screening!"
With the exception of Kevin Thomas from the Los Angeles Times, every other critic gave the movie a negative review.
Kevin Thomas picked up.
"Martin, I heard that Roger Ebert and David Denby organized a bunch of critics to trash your movie. Supposedly, they're trying to prove that critics still hold power."
That old man still hadn't learned his lesson, huh?
When people got old, they should just retire peacefully.
Word was that Denby was close to Universal's production head—Kevin Johnson.
The same Kevin Johnson who had clashed with Martin before.
Could he be involved in this, too?
That guy had been unwillingly forced to apologize last time.
Martin had seen the resentment hidden in his eyes.
"A failed copycat film. A cheap imitation."
"A musical should not be filmed this way. Anne Fletcher clearly tried to make something unique, but ended up with a disjointed mess."
"Not even Martin can save this trainwreck. No matter how much he flashes his perfect face and six-pack, it can't make up for the weak plot."
"This entire film is just one big music video. The leads spend the whole time showing off their bodies—there's no depth whatsoever."
Kevin Johnson put down the newspaper, satisfied.
"It's time to start promoting our movie. I'm going to crush Martin this time."
He had full confidence in The Hulk.
Acclaimed director Ang Lee, fresh off a success.
There was no way some rookie director's teen dance movie could compete with that.
But reality was cruel.
Step Up grossed $34.1 million in its four-day opening weekend.
By the end of its first full week, it had made $36.3 million.
After just a week and a half, the total was over $70 million.
Hitting $100 million was just a matter of time.
Meanwhile, on its second Thursday in theaters, The Hulk was released.
Far below expectations.
Despite critics singing its praises—calling it "the most artistic superhero film" and "the deepest blockbuster of the year"—
The audience wasn't buying it.