I woke up from a dream.
No matter how hard I tried to convince myself it was just a crazy dream, every detail was still so vivid in my mind.
Of all days, it had to be my birthday—a day ruined by such a ridiculous dream. I felt so mixed up inside.
But something was off. Even though my eyes had been closed, I sensed that the temperature was slightly different… Feeling strange, I opened my eyes a little.
“Uh…?”
The ceiling looked different. The once-dark wallpaper had brightened. What was going on?
Usually I would see the same morning signal, but today it didn’t come. And somehow, my body felt a bit lighter….
I got up and looked around.
“What the heck is this…?”
It was my home—the house I lived in when I was with my parents.
This was my old room, with a poster of Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece 2001: A Space Odyssey on the wall.
While I stood there, utterly bewildered by the changed room, I heard a knock-knock.
“Chan-hyun, it’s time to eat.”
It was Jun-sung—my classmate from film school who had stayed at my house for a while while my younger brother was in the military.
What on earth was going on…?
“Is he asleep? There’s no answer. Sir, ma’am—looks like he’s sleeping,” someone said.
“Can you go and wake him up? We need to eat together.”
I could faintly hear my warm mother’s voice, a voice I’d often only heard in my dreams.
The last time I heard that voice was in a dream on the day I learned that she had passed away.
“Hey, are you coming in? I have the key right here!”
“Wait a minute! I’ll be right out! Just wait!”
My trembling hands betrayed me. Even in dreams, my mother’s voice sounded the same.
I heard her on the other side of the door. But when I opened it, all I saw was an empty living room with dusty furniture.
Was everything, just like in a dream, about to vanish? Fear crept over me.
I pinched my arm with shaking hands to prove I really felt something.
If I didn’t feel this pain, then…
If this were really reality….
Bam! Bam!
“Hey! Get out here! We’re waiting for you!”
I took a deep breath and cautiously opened the locked door.
There, in the living room, were my parents. My father sat at the table behind Jun-sung while my mother carried a bowl of soup.
It really was my home.
A glance at the calendar told me it was the year 2000. Wasn’t my younger brother, Sang-hyun, due to be discharged in 2002?
“Dad?”
“Yeah.”
Hearing my father’s gruff response, I started to feel more grounded in reality.
Even though his reply was brief, I later realized that it was his own way of showing affection.
“Mom?”
In response, my mother looked over at Jun-sung and said,
“Why is this kid acting up this morning, Jun-sung? Did you drink too much last night?”
“Um…? Haha, no. I was busy brainstorming for our graduation project yesterday. I didn’t even touch any alcohol.”
Even though Jun-sung wasn’t a great actor, his rolling eyes betrayed his lie for anyone who cared to see.
“Just sit down already. Don’t make me worry, alright? You came in late again last night—if that’s how it’s going to be, then you’d better get out on your own!”
“Ha… haha… haha.”
I managed a sheepish smile as I took a spoonful of rice. But before I even swallowed, tears started to roll down uncontrollably.
“Oh dear, why are you crying? Are you upset because of what Dad said?”
“Come on, man. It wasn’t what you think. There’s another reason.”
Seeing my parents’ bewildered expressions and the way Jun-sung sat there, unsure where to look, my eyes filled with tears as I wiped them away and forced down another mouthful of rice.
“Babi, you drank way too much… sniff…”
After the meal, once I had calmed down a bit, I went back to my room and lay down, thinking over the conversation I’d had with Jin-myung—the self-proclaimed God of Film.
–“How about making a movie about all those people who’ve vanished? As the God of Film, I can’t stand by and let that slide.”
There were no directors around anymore. Yet, looking around my room, it seemed Stanley Kubrick was still here.
I pressed the power button on my computer, and it booted up with some strange startup sounds.
Windows 2000—it clearly indicated that I had returned to the year 2000.
It took nearly a minute to start up.
I caught a glimpse of the old “Yahoo” portal site and slowly began searching for directors I knew.
Then, one by one, I started jotting down names of directors who didn’t really exist in my current search history:
“Quentin Tarantino, Martin Scorsese, Michel Gondry, Bong Joon-ho, Park Chan-wook, William Friedkin, Guillermo del Toro, Hirokazu Koreeda…”
Every time I got no search results, I started to believe that my conversation with the God of Film wasn’t just a dream.
“What the…?”
This situation reminded me of the movie Yesterday.
In that film, after the world lost electricity and with it, the Beatles’ songs disappeared, an unknown musician rose to fame by singing those songs.
Because most of the Beatles’ music was self-composed, without them, their songs would simply vanish.
But movies don’t work that way. Many films have source material.
Even though there were still countless directors to search for, I wanted to check on movies with existing original works, so I searched for Jurassic Park.
Sure enough, Steven Spielberg’s film—adapted from Michael Crichton’s novel—had indeed been released.
But the director credited was not Spielberg; it was some unknown “Smith Vande.”
Smith Vande’s Jurassic Park had been an absolute disaster.
Even though a film could be made because there was a source novel, it looked as though the director lacked the ability to properly adapt it, and that was why the movie failed.
Knock-knock.
“Chan-hyun, can I come in?”
It was Jun-sung’s voice.
“Sure.”
Jun-sung—my friend and classmate who had been my closest pal after my films went down the drain—entered.
After I left Korea, I heard that Jun-sung had quickly become a rather successful producer in South Korea.
Although he wasn’t the strongest director, he certainly had an eye for film.
Especially when it came to understanding commercial potential—a skill he’d had since our college days.
He used to tell me that one of my films that ruined my directing career had even won awards, insisting it wasn’t the producer’s fault that there wasn’t enough investment in a newcomer’s script, or that I wasn’t a star director.
Back then, in my state of self-adulation, I thought Jun-sung was just harboring some jealousy. Even now, I’d rather not think about it.
Jun-sung walked in with an awkward smile. Perhaps worried about the sight of his crazy, tearful friend during dinner, he cautiously approached.
“You alright?”
“Never better.”
“You? The guy we always see as top-notch? I never thought I’d see you cry at the dinner table, man. What’s going on?”
Looking at Jun-sung’s face made me crack a smile.
He was the one who had taken care of my parents when I bolted out of Korea in a hurry in my previous life.
I even heard that when my younger brother got badly hurt, it was Jun-sung who covered the hospital bills.
But I never had the heart to call him—though I was very grateful, I felt too undeserving.
Thinking back on the debts I had incurred in my previous life—complete with heavy interest—the mere thought of repaying everything made me smile. Yet, as soon as he saw me smiling, Jun-sung frowned.
“Smiling? Are you sure you’re alright? You were bawling your eyes out just a minute ago.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“I’ve never seen you cry before—and at the dinner table, no less. You can tell me, man. Is something wrong? What’s this all about?”
Jun-sung looked at the notebook in front of me, where I had written down my ideas, and said,
“Quentin Tarantino? Who’s that?”
“Of course there is—he used to be one of your favorite directors.”
I remembered how, while watching Tarantino’s films—movies that balanced artistic quality with realism—I’d once said:
“The real measure of a successful director is the box office. Look at Tarantino. Has he ever made a flop? His scripts are perfect, his direction is flawless, and even production… it’s nearly perfect. Acting? Well… not perfect, but still.”
I had urged him over and over that he should become a director like Tarantino.
“What’s with all these names? I’ve never heard half of them before.”
“Ah… don’t worry. When I break into Hollywood, I’ll have loads of names ready to give to the actors. Haha.”
At my response, Jun-sung frowned.
“Christopher Nolan? Doesn’t that name sound a bit weird? Nolan?”
“That name is brilliant. Now let me get on with my work.”
“So? Are you finally brainstorming for the graduation project? Really? Man, you still need to scout locations, decide on actor ages… how can you be ready when nothing is set? You’ve got nothing! Have you even decided on how old the actors should be?”
“Here. I’ll have the script and storyboard finished by today. Just wait.”
Pointing at my head with my finger, I said, “It’s all there in my mind.”
Jun-sung frowned and asked, “By today?”
“Just wait a bit longer. I promise to bring something jaw-droppingly good.”
Jun-sung grumbled as he left my room, and my eyes naturally wandered to the synopsis of my original graduation project, Blue Moon.
I had returned to a time just before graduating college.
At that time, one of the film department’s graduation requirements—both for Jun-sung and me—was to submit a short film under 15 minutes with a free theme.
Back then, I would have submitted Blue Moon as my graduation project.
That film earned me quite a bit of recognition.
In fact, it had even attracted several production companies. However, compared to the films of 2022 playing in my mind now, it seemed rather outdated.
Even Jun-sung admitted that, for a first work, it was well-made—but he said its commercial appeal was just average.
I remembered how our relationship had cooled for a few days after his blunt criticism. In hindsight, he was right.
Now, I’m different from the past. My mind is full of films—ideas on direction, camera techniques, everything.
I have to make my long feature debut as quickly as possible with this graduation project. Turning a short film into a feature isn’t common, but there are precedents.
For example, Whiplash.
Damien Chazelle made an 18-minute low-budget short film about two jazz enthusiasts to secure funding for a feature about obsessive musicians.
That short film was a huge success.
Thanks to Whiplash, Damien Chazelle was recognized, went on to make La La Land, and eventually swept awards as a world-renowned director.
I thought that might be the best way to start for me too….
But now, with only two months left until graduation, time is running out.
I’m short on both time and money. I rested my fingertips on my temples and racked my brain.
What should I shoot? Which genre should I choose? I need something low-budget, without spatial constraints, and at the same time, something that will grab people’s attention.
Then it hit me.
A locked-room thriller.
What are some examples of a locked-room thriller?
There was Cube by Vincenzo Natali, Panic Room by David Fincher, Phone Booth by Joel Schumacher, and Saw by James Wan. None of these names appeared in my search history.
So… does that mean there isn’t even a locked-room thriller genre yet?
I grabbed a pen and quickly jotted down the synopsis for my very own locked-room thriller. It didn’t take more than a few minutes.
Since it was a short film, I only needed to shoot the most important scenes.
A thriller that would tingle all the senses—that’s exactly what people need right now.
Knock-knock.
“Hey, are you done? You said you’d have it ready by tonight. It’s already 10 o’clock. I feel like we should have a serious discussion about the assignment outside.”
Because my parents went to bed early, whenever we had late-night talks, we usually met at a nearby pub.
And we’ve had countless conversations there—discussing films until the pub closed.
Since my parents didn’t like us drinking, the term “serious discussion” was our secret code.
I carefully gathered all the notebooks containing the storyboards, the script, and the synopsis that I’d worked on since morning, then slightly opened the door and whispered,
“Money?”
“You bought it yesterday, so I’ll cover it today. My graduation—your graduation—depends on the ideas in your head right now.”
“Let’s go.”
Just as we were about to head out, Ms. Bong Ji-yoon spotted us.
“Where do you think you’re going at this hour? Out drinking again, are you?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“What? Then where are you off to?!”
“We’re going to the park to talk about our dreams.”
“Dreams?”
My mother asked again.
“We’re going to discuss when my dad’s theater might finally screen my film—and other such things. The young folks want to talk about hopeful dreams. Were you planning to stop them?”
My mother frowned, and my father just nodded silently as if he understood. It was my dad’s own survival tactic—offering only silent agreement to keep things smooth with my mother.
“Honey! Didn’t you hear what I said this morning?”
“Be back soon, okay? Don’t worry let your mom worry,” my father said.
I smiled brightly as I replied, “I’ll be right back. Please go to bed without worrying!”
Leave a Reply