“I Try Really Hard, Actually”: On Screening Juno and Diablo Cody’s Totally Wizard Writing

Musings on storytelling and orange Tic Tacs ahead of Thursday’s Reel Friends screening

A month before I turned nineteen, I took my first screenwriting class.

I’d always been a writer, but I had yet to work up the courage to officially tackle a script. The professor—who has since morphed into a longtime mentor for my creative endeavors—opened with a foundational piece of advice, one emblazoned into the hearts and minds of storytellers across time and space: Write what you know.

The sentiment is often deemed a compass for content (understandably so), encouraging pupils to insert characters into situations similar to their own lived experiences. In my eyes, it is a reminder to tap into something far more personal: voice. Harnessing your voice as a writer necessitates a giving of the self, a pouring of your innermost intricacies onto the page. It’s one big exercise in vulnerability.

I’ve read a lot of scripts, but I have yet to find a more unapologetically original voice than Diablo Cody’s in her screenwriting debut, Juno.

This Thursday, I am co-hosting Reel Friends’ screening of Juno at the Tara Theatre, alongside the endlessly talented writer, programmer, and my dear friend, Syd Stanley. Screening the film is one of the most meaningful opportunities I’ve had in my career thus far—it’s a dream come true on a multitude of levels. Juno is an all-timer for me, shaping my eclectic personality and interests, but more importantly molding me into the writer I am today.

Juno was a landmark moment for indie cinema. In the wake of festival darlings like Napoleon Dynamite (2004) and Little Miss Sunshine (2006), the film became the poster child for quirky, low-budget tales and sent an entire generation down a warm-toned twee spiral. Juno (and its chart-topping soundtrack) garnered numerous awards and accolades, and it serves as a timeless cultural touchstone for introducing more mainstream audiences to the realm of wonderfully offbeat storytelling.

Straight out of Canada, Elliot Page (Juno MacGuff) and Michael Cera (Paulie Bleeker) charmed their way into the hearts of viewers everywhere. The lovable awkwardness of their characters made for a refreshing portrayal of adolescence, one that made the “uncool” something to chase and embrace. At the core of their dynamic is a genuine friendship, the kind of innocent love that keeps them both afloat amidst the trials of Juno’s pregnancy.

The adults in Juno are also multi-faceted, thoughtfully-characterized contributors to the narrative, as opposed to the overbearing grown-ups in typical coming-of-age stories. J.K. Simmons (Mac MacGuff), Allison Janney (Bren MacGuff), Jason Bateman (Mark Loring), and Jennifer Garner (Vanessa Loring) each play an individualized part in Juno’s life, with their own clear-cut perspectives on the situation at hand—some more beneficial than others. The entire cast’s performances still seem to follow them wherever they go, a fond reminder of what a once-in-a-lifetime project can bring out of an actor.

Though directed by second-gen Hollywood royal Jason Reitman, Juno undoubtedly belongs to its writer, Diablo Cody. For nearly two decades, Cody’s success story has been cut out of magazines and framed on the walls of writing women everywhere, including myself. A sardonic blogger with a penchant for quips and quirks, she quit her day job to pursue a more riveting career: stripping. Her digital musings on sex work (housed under the aptly-titled blog, The Pussy Ranch) soon evolved into a full-on memoir. Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper caught the attention of readers around the globe. Cody’s manager, producer Mason Novick, suggested she develop a spec script to showcase her skillset ahead of pitching Candy Girl adaptations.

Thus, Cody purchased the screenplays for American Beauty (1999, written by Alan Ball) and Ghost World (2001, written by Terry Zwigoff and Daniel Clowes) and got to work. Over the next few weeks, Juno was conceived in lunch-break writing spurts during her insurance temp job in Eden Prairie, Minnesota. The script was Cody’s first, a lightning-strike moment landing her a star-studded, box-office smash and an Academy Award. “I thought I was writing a sample; I was trying to get my foot in the door in Hollywood,” she told The Hollywood Reporter in 2022. “It didn’t occur to me that the script was going to be produced.”

The appeal of Juno’s writing does not rest entirely in its rapid-fire one-liners and absurd vernacular (“This is one doodle that can’t be undid, homeskillet”) nor is it solely in the distinct characterization of every role, from Leah and her ill-timed jokes to the Nintendo-playing emo receptionist at the clinic. It isn’t even found in its brilliant balance of humor with gravity as we watch our protagonist discover the depth of the chasm between adolescence and adulthood. Ultimately, Juno’s magic lies in its authenticity.

Like most writers, Diablo Cody did not live through her characters’ journey—in fact, she never even set out to tell a story about teen pregnancy. The plot was born from a desire to explore the dynamic between a headstrong alternative high schooler and “yuppie” adults like The Lorings. Reitman thoughtfully asserted that the pregnancy was closer to a “location” in the script rather than the story itself. Regardless of any shared experiences (or lack thereof), the script is quintessentially Cody.

Rarely does a writer wear their heart on their sleeve as unabashedly as Cody did in Juno. She described the screenplay as a “personal, emotional scavenger hunt”: from a faulty hamburger phone to a high school boyfriend with a Tic Tac addiction, the film is chock full of references to her life. “I dragged so many of my own experiences into it that I'm shocked the movie is so coherent,” the writer told The Telegraph. “I managed to get every person, quirk and object that has meaning in my life into the script. I wanted to make it deeply personal. I didn't want it to be generic." Later in the piece, Cody said there were certain elements of the film she could “only watch through her fingers” due to their particular significance.

To know Juno is to know Diablo Cody, but to know Juno is to also know me. My parents would spin its soundtrack on childhood car rides, hipping me to the likes of The Moldy Peaches and The Kinks before I’d even seen a single scene. After finally watching the movie, I was utterly absorbed by every aspect. Its witticisms wormed their way into my vocabulary, and I’d be lying if I said my music, fashion, and film tastes weren’t altered by its aesthetics. Juno has since become synonymous with my name among my friends, forever tied to my excited ramblings about the film to anyone with an open ear. The first boy I ever loved—a Bleeker in his own right—bought me two boxes of orange Tic Tacs for the one birthday we celebrated together. “I couldn’t figure out a way to fill up your mailbox,” he smiled, referencing Juno’s third-act proclamation, “but it was the most ‘You’ gift I could think of.” The remaining pack still sits unopened on my dresser. Cue “Tire Swing” by Kimya Dawson.

Moreover, Juno showed me what was possible as a writer. Diablo Cody’s ability to seamlessly intertwine such personal fragments into her storytelling demonstrates the power of her voice. Cody’s style—further bolstered by projects such as Jennifer’s Body (2009) and Lisa Frankenstein (2024)—is instantly-recognizable. She incorporates both mundane and deeply intimate allusions into her work, but it never morphs into an autobiography or exposé (Graduating from The Stevie Nicks and Carly Simon Institute for Disgruntled Women Wordsmiths, one quickly discovers that art with an axe to grind is a double-edged sword). Cody’s way with words is uniquely hers, oft-imitated but never replicated—a handful of modern movies have made admirable attempts to do “the Juno thing,” but these efforts only emphasize the original’s singularity.

I have no interest in perfectly emulating Cody’s writing (though I wouldn’t be opposed to acquiring her ability to get producers to take her call). I do, however, strive to follow in her footsteps by tuning the dial on my Microsoft Word/Final Draft radio ‘til my voice rings clear amidst the static. My references-per-paragraph ranking probably averages a little higher than it should, cramming tidbits and trivia and anecdotes and overheard conversations into everything I create. I can’t help but imbue my writing with subtle winks and nods to my world—if anything, it makes each piece a time-capsule love letter to my life. Even with all the Olivia-isms sprinkled throughout, the story always evolves into something that stands entirely apart from myself, something that will hopefully inspire another young writer to pursue the craft someday.

Call it beginner’s luck, call it divine impartation, call it the only way to survive a Minnesotan winter: Juno is a screenwriter’s dream. The stellar script paved the way for skillful direction, remarkable acting, and a final product that can be rewatched time and time again.

There’s a brief interaction at the end of the first act that’s been stuck in my head for years: Juno has just told her parents she’s pregnant. Mac, taken aback by the news, remarks that Juno seemed like “the kind of girl who knew when to say when.” Juno hesitates and stares at her sneakers. She finally musters a reply: “I don’t really know what kind of girl I am.”

The line has had numerous interpretations over the years. Whether it’s about finding one’s footing while stepping into maturity or an introspective commentary on gender (especially when viewed through the lens of Elliot Page’s journey), the statement resonates deeply with anyone who has yet to meet the fullest version of themselves. The idea of writing what you know might seem impossible for someone who doesn’t really know what kind of girl they are (or aren’t)—it certainly feels that way for me most days.

Yet, Diablo Cody proves it can be done. By leaning into the fragments of what she did know of herself—no matter how simple, silly, or secret—she crafted an extraordinary screenplay. At only twenty-seven years old, she had already left an undeniable mark on the storytelling world, with much more to come. A lifetime later, Juno still reigns supreme as a beloved (and totally wizard) twenty-first-century classic.

Reel Friends presents “Juno” this Thursday, June 11^th, at 8pm at the Tara Theatre. Purchase tickets HERE.

Article by Olivia Smith. Photos courtesy of IMDB and Reel Friends.