I must have fallen asleep without even realizing when, and when I woke up, it was already dark outside.
I can’t even say how long I’ve been living this kind of life.
Living a life where you’re awake yet secretly wishing you weren’t wasn’t something I really wanted.
But what can you do? If you don’t have the courage to die, you end up living without ever dying.
As I slowly sat up, the alcohol I’d had the night before began to bubble inside me, as if preparing itself to face the day.
I got out of bed, took a sip of water, grabbed my cellphone, and dashed off to the bathroom.
“Wait… what day is it today?”
The phone’s display showed November 7, 2022.
It’s my birthday. Yet no messages, no calls—it happens every year, but it still feels lonely.
After finishing in the bathroom, I came out and opened YouTube on my phone.
Politics, entertainment, fishing… none of it caught my interest. As I swiped down with my finger, a video title caught my eye:
[The Ill-Fated Genius Film Director Gyeong Chan-hyun: 20 Facts You Didn’t Know]
Sigh…
A sigh escaped me. YouTube always seems to have videos about other people.
Sure enough, most of these videos are about individuals who have done something dirty or been involved in scandals to grab attention—but I was momentarily startled to see my own name.
Half excited and half nervous, I cautiously clicked on the video.
[Gyeong Chan-hyun was born on September 7, 1975…]
“Was it wrong right from the start?”
[A film director who graduated from the Korea National University of Arts in 2001—his short films made in college remained well known among film students for years.]
I wondered if, like everyone else, my start had been met with praise.
But I already knew how this video would end. In the last five minutes, they’d probably start spewing insults. People must have clicked just to see that.
[Especially, the graduation work “Blue Moon” – even now, it’s hard to believe a college student could have made something like that. So, why did such a promising director vanish?]
Sigh…
At the mention of “Blue Moon,” instead of feeling nostalgic, irritation began to well up.
Unpleasant memories I’d rather forget surged back.
Just when I was about to light a cigarette in the bathroom and replay the video, a snippet played:
[Welcome to the jungle~ We got fun and games~]
That ringtone from Guns N’ Roses—remember when it shook all of 80s America—sparked a fleeting thrill in me. But of course, the person who called didn’t even know it was my birthday.
Just some drunk buddy I met on a side job.
“Where are you? I heard you’re buying drinks today.”
“Oh, I’m heading out soon.”
“Come on, hurry up. Did you just wake up?”
“Why?”
“Your voice sounded rough.”
“I’ll be out in a bit, just wait. I’m at the pork belly restaurant.”
I hung up and stared into the mirror for a moment.
The man reflected back was aging much faster than I’d expected. My 48-year-old self looked nothing like the image I’d had in my twenties.
My dream had been to become the most successful film director in Korea—no, in the world. Yet my life now is entirely different.
Why on earth did things turn out this way? I knew the answer, but even recalling it gnawed at me.
Back in 2000, I had successfully finished the graduation project “Blue Moon.”
People around me buzzed about a prodigy at college, and critics took an interest, leaving short reviews of my film.
Convinced I’d succeed as a director, I was writing scripts and looking for assistant director positions.
Then, through a senior, a production company contacted me.
They had seen my graduation project and asked if I’d consider expanding the short into a feature film and directing it.
For a fresh film director who had just graduated, it was unusual to secure such a huge budget—a proposal only fit for a “genius of the century.”
At the time, I believed I was a genius.
That, however, became my undoing.
Simply put, I was nothing more than a scarecrow.
I shouted that things were just not right along the way, but no one listened. The sneers and jeers came: “What does a kid, still wet behind the ears, know?”
In the end, the film project went downhill, becoming a mess that anyone would call garbage. So I quit.
But the production didn’t stop.
An actor stepped forward, saying he’d serve as a stand-in director, and led the project to finish shooting. A few days later, the production company called again, saying that since I was the one who originally held the megaphone, they wanted me to do the final edit.
My pride took a huge blow. I would never have agreed to it willingly, but in the end, I did.
Money.
That was the only reason I had no choice but to return to that trash of a film.
Since 1998, after multiplex theaters with more than five screens began appearing, our family’s small theater business quickly fell apart financially.
We managed for about two years, but soon we were running deficits and accumulating debt.
Desperate to help my family, I swallowed that poisoned chalice.
In the end, the film was completed and released, with my name emblazoned in huge letters beneath the poster:
[Gyeong Chan-hyun, Debut Work of a Bold Newcomer!]
Seeing that tagline stirred a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. It was garbage, yes—but it was still my first work.
Not long after its release, the film abruptly ended.
There was a behind-the-scenes story that I, having thrown down the megaphone, never knew.
The film had been deliberately produced solely for the purpose of embezzlement by the investment and production companies, and the reason I was called back at the end was to have all those failing frames pinned on me.
Because of that, soon after its release, I disappeared from the Korean film scene as a director. Or rather, people actively avoided me.
Even though the embezzlement was committed by the investment and production companies, their media spin made people sick of being associated with me.
I couldn’t even face calls from close friends—I had no idea what they’d be thinking.
Mulling over that irrevocable past, cigarette in hand, I set off for the pork belly restaurant.
“Are you here?”
“Did you order?”
“Two servings of pork belly. I didn’t order any alcohol—I planned to get some when you arrive.”
This is Oh Jin-myung. Although we hadn’t known each other long, he calls me “brother” and takes good care of me.
“On your day off, buying drinks for someone like me. Do you have no one else to see?”
“If I did, would I waste my time with someone like you?”
“Even though we’re both in the same boat, hey—it’s your birthday today, isn’t it? Here, take this.”
“How did you know it was my birthday?”
“I’m a few years younger than you. In this day and age, how could you not know that?”
Jin-myung handed me a small, carefully wrapped box. I couldn’t even guess what kind of birthday present it was after so many years without one.
“Thanks. But what is it?”
“Can’t you tell by the wrapping? Open it at home.”
We started chatting over soju—trivial jokes, gossip about directors, and the like. Then Jin-myung sighed and asked,“Brother, didn’t you used to make films? Haven’t you talked about that before?”
“Well, yeah—I did. It was a long time ago. Now…”
“Things didn’t go well, did they? I’ve only heard that you made them, but nothing about what happened.”
“Tch, ha… Shall we get going?”
“Hey, already?”
Jin-myung looked a bit flustered as he grabbed my arm.
“This kind of talk belongs for round two. Come on, if the subject changes, isn’t it proper etiquette to change seats, as a gentleman should?”
“Ha ha, you’re right as always, brother—you really have a sense for these things.”
Jin-myung laughed heartily and got up. We moved to a nearby pub, ordered some beer and snacks, and continued our conversation.
When I summarized my film career for him, Jin-myung frowned.
“Those guys are complete scumbags, aren’t they? Such rotten bastards…”
“Thanks for getting mad at them.”
He looked at me for a moment with eyes full of either pity or sympathy—they looked terribly sad.
“But with your talent, are you working in another country’s film scene now?”
“How else can I do it? This is all I know how to do.”
“You’re not exactly someone to idle around with. Truly, the world is stingy.”
“That’s just life.”
I exhaled a deep sigh along with my cigarette smoke. Jin-myung across from me chuckled and continued, “So, how many years did you spend on sets?”
“After all that mess, I couldn’t get work for about five years. So I basically fled Korea like an escape artist.”
“So you spent 16 years working abroad in film?”
“Something like that.”
“That must be why you had so many complaints on set.”
Every time we were on set together, I’d grumble about what was wrong with the direction, the lighting, the framing—and only someone like Jin-myung, being from the same country, would listen to me.
“But I have to admit, when you chime in with your ideas, everything does improve.”
“Thanks, at least for saying that.”
“Oh dear, saying it is easy.”
After drinking with Jin-myung, I returned to my little hideaway.
The cigarette I lit under the moonlight tasted surprisingly good.
The rich aroma and the smoke that filled my lungs soon faded away.
“Maybe one more drink…”
I filled my glass and downed it in one gulp, feeling a tingle in my stomach.
Things that aren’t good for you sometimes have a way of comforting your spirit.
Whether it would be quicker to die as a wreck because of all this smoking and drinking—or to live without them and end up as a wreck of a mind—I couldn’t decide.
I couldn’t give a firm answer, but for now, I just needed some solace.
I replayed a video that I had paused earlier because of our drinking session.
[Director Gyeong Chan-hyun is a victim.]
“Uh…?”
[Director Gyeong Chan-hyun’s long-time friend, Producer Lee Jun-sung, also stood by his side.]
This YouTuber usually didn’t use this format—just pictures with a voiceover and subtitles.
[You mentioned you were close with Director Gyeong Chan-hyun?]
[Yes. I even stayed at his place for a while. He’s entirely a victim—but the world still sees him as the perpetrator.]
[I see. But why reveal this now…?]
[I’ve always said so. I even tried to settle it through legal means, but no one would listen. Even when the newspapers published articles, no one cared.]
[But now, too much time has passed…]
[Gyeong Chan-hyun. He was the only genius director I ever saw. No matter how much time passes, I keep searching for him…]
I turned off the video. Jun-sung had aged rather gracefully—if you looked on the bright side, he could still pass for being in his late 30s. I was glad to see him, yet I couldn’t bear to look at his face—I felt too guilty.
I had been ignoring his calls and even changed my number…
Sighing, I took another sip. Maybe it would be better if I just disappeared like this. I slowly closed my eyes.
But then, I noticed a faint light seeping out of the pocket of my padded jacket.
“Uh…?”
The small glimmer grew, enveloping me, and before long, I lost consciousness.
“Brother.”
What was that? A familiar voice.
“Brother! Wake up!”
“Who… huh?”
I opened my eyes. I found myself on a stage in a play, standing next to a man—it was Jin-myung, the same guy I’d been drinking with just moments ago.
“Is this a dream?”
It felt so vivid. In my 48-year life—whether long or short—I’d never experienced a dream so real.
“Whether it’s a dream or not, does it even matter?”
Jin-myung smiled brightly at me and said,
“Looking at your life, brother, it seems like things got so twisted that your world went to pieces. But your talent as a director… it’s still pretty good.”
“Ha ha…”
He snapped his fingers.
Snap!
With that clear, cheerful sound, Jin-myung transformed into someone entirely unrecognizable. Dressed in a sharp suit with a stylish beard, he looked like a completely different person.
“I’m known as the God of Film.”
“Pfft…”
“Funny?”
As he frowned, I shook my head and tried to come to my senses—after all, it was just a dream, so I might as well play along.
“No, I’m sorry.”
“You know about the multiverse, right?”
“Of course…” I replied.
“Well, it’s something that comes up in movies all the time. In the multiverse, there’s even one where the film market is in ruins—a universe called E-18495.”
He even attached a planet name to the multiverse?
“All the capable ones have vanished. Steven Spielberg? Tch, that guy wasn’t even born. Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino—the same. I don’t know which foolish person prevented their birth, but they simply don’t exist!”
“Aha. I see. And so?”
I held back a laugh as I answered his passionate rant.
“Would you consider making films about those who vanished, to revive the film industry there? As the God of Film, I can’t stand by and let it be.”
“What?”
A self-proclaimed God of Film should at least limit the nonsense.
Revive the film industry? You really think the entire industry can be saved by just me?
“Oh, yes, yes—you sound so confident. That’s an interesting proposal.”
“Judging by your face, you don’t seem confident at all. You claim to be a genius—is that all you are? To answer so nonchalantly to such an opportunity—has your pride completely disappeared because your life is so messed up?”
“A little messed up…?”
At that moment, the fragile thread of my reason snapped.
“What do you know! How much have I…!”
Overwhelming emotions surged up, and I was momentarily speechless.
Damn, why do dreams suddenly dredge up these feelings?
“Do you think I wouldn’t know?”
When the self-proclaimed God of Film snapped his fingers again, we found ourselves in a movie theater. On the screen, fragments of my life—the moments that felt like hell—flashed by:
• The downfall of our family theater.
• The news of my parents’ deaths.
• My sibling’s accident.
—only the most miserable scenes were shown…
“Stop it…”
Tears welled up. I had drunk so much to avoid feeling that agony ever again—even in my dreams…
“If I send you to the world I described, do you think you can revive their film industry?”
“Yeah! Send me back! Take me to the time when I first started making films! I’ll create works so brilliant that Spielberg, Scorsese, and Tarantino would grovel before them!”
“Hahaha! Alright, you’ve got the guts—that’s exactly what you need to save the film industry. Now go and try to revive it… revive this ruined film industry.”
The God of Film snapped his fingers once more—and simultaneously, I lost consciousness again.
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