Note: Chan-hyun -> Chanhyeon ; Jun-sung -> Jun-seong
Our film crew gathered at school and then headed to Namsan.
That’s where our school’s graduation film festival was taking place—at the Namsan Arts Center.
Anyone could come watch the festival, but the students who submitted their graduation projects cared more about the awards ceremony than the audience turnout. After all the films finished screening, there’d be an awards ceremony. Students whose projects were shown were up for a few awards: the Technical Award, the Ready-Go Award, and the Popularity Award.
After those student awards, there were awards for graduates from previous years, but nobody who’s still in school really pays attention to those.
With my old film, Blue Moon, I’d only gotten the Popularity Award—though, to be honest, we mostly owed that to Gwak Yeon-ji. Our school made a big fuss about having discovered a “rising youth star,” and because Yeon-ji was well-known on campus, she ran away with the votes.
Usually, the director goes onstage to accept the Popularity Award, but since I knew full well I only won thanks to Yeon-ji, I pretended I needed the bathroom and had her pick it up instead.
Getting the Popularity Award basically meant you didn’t get the Ready-Go Award. Our school never gave multiple awards to one film. Back then, my sights had been set on the Ready-Go Award, which was chosen directly by the film professors. They judged the overall completion level of a film, including directing, acting, and script, before selecting the winner.
As soon as we saw the giant banner advertising the festival, the crew behind me started chatting—a mix of excitement and nerves.
“Bet a bunch of famous alumni are coming today, right?”
“I heard Director Kim Soo-rin’s gonna show.”
“Oh, Kim Soo-rin? Cool.”
I’d never heard of that director. Since coming back (in this new timeline), I’d rented all sorts of videos to see what was considered “classics” here. But the film scene in this world was so different that I’d given up trying to compare it to the hits I used to know. For instance, Jurassic Park here was made by someone named Smith Bender, not Steven Spielberg. I just gave up on making sense of it.
“Hey, Chanhyeon, which award do you have your eye on?”
“Come on, obviously it’s the Ready-Go Award,” Jun-seong said through a mouthful of snacks.
“Dude, finish chewing before you speak. Gross.”
“Oh, gross? My friend’s chewed-up snack is gross?”
“Uh, yeah—it’s definitely gross.”
Jun-seong pretended to pout, making everyone else crack up.
“All right, let’s head in.”
We still had a good chunk of time before the festival started, but the theater was already packed. We grabbed some seats near a corner and waited. I spotted Gwak Yeon-ji coming in from a distance.
She was doing interviews with a bunch of reporters following her around.
“Wow, Yeon-ji’s already a star.”
“Seriously, she’s got reporters trailing her. It must mean her agency’s working hard.”
Yeon-ji glanced around, then gradually made her way in our direction with her reporters in tow. She sat right in front of us and launched into an interview.
“So you recently starred in a short film. How was the filming experience?” a reporter asked.
“It was fine. Though the team definitely worked harder than I did. I couldn’t keep my schedule straight, so they had to adjust the shooting calendar… I felt really bad,” Yeon-ji replied.
The reporters nodded approvingly at Yeon-ji’s attempts to look humble. Honestly, she was performing so woodenly, it was obvious she was following some PR script from her agency.
“And even if I do win an award today, I hope the spotlight goes to our team rather than just me.”
Hearing that made my stomach churn. I was trying to ignore it, but her voice carried right to my ears.
“I actually failed an audition once, too,” she added.
“What? You did?”
“But I ended up in a better project, so I’m choosing to see it as a positive experience.”
Is she trying to start some kind of turf war by sitting here on purpose? I wondered.
Our team members must’ve been listening too, because everyone sat there wide-eyed, no one saying a word.
“Looks like it’s starting!” someone said.
The lights dimmed, and a man and woman with microphones walked up on stage. They started with the usual small talk and jokes, warming up the crowd.
Before long, the films began screening.
The movies, all directed by soon-to-be graduates, had a youthful vibe. Many were obviously rough around the edges, missing the mark on capturing the actors’ performances, etc. After each film ended, the hosts came back on stage to give a few compliments, then announced the next title.
“Next up is <Spring Day> by Cho Hyun-woo!”
“This movie stars our school’s rising star: Gwak Yeon-ji!”
At the mention of Yeon-ji’s name, the entire theater erupted in cheers from both men and women. Once that calmed down, the MCs stepped off stage, and Spring Day began.
It was basically a personal coming-of-age story about a young adult unsure of their path in life, reflecting the director’s own struggles. In my opinion, it was awful. Especially Yeon-ji’s performance—it was so bad, it broke any chance of being immersed in the film.
There’s a saying: “Movies are the director’s art form, TV dramas are the writer’s, and plays are the actor’s.” If an actor’s performance is subpar, they do share some blame, but ultimately the director has a larger responsibility for letting it pass. Let’s just say the fact that her bad acting got a thumbs-up from the director was a huge mistake on their part.
I remembered constantly arguing with Yeon-ji back when we shot Blue Moon, even telling her to “get lost if you’re going to act like that.”
Anyway, when Spring Day ended, the applause was noticeably weaker than when it started. The MCs came on, wearing tight smiles.
“Um… yes.”
“What a… marvelous piece!”
“Right, Cho Hyun-woo’s <Spring Day>! And Gwak Yeon-ji’s standout performance! That was just delightful.”
“So, what’s next?”
“Next up is <Woman in a Locked Room>, directed by Gyeong Chanhyeon!”
“Ooh, <Woman in a Locked Room>? Sounds thrilling!”
“Seems like an old-school film vibe, but also something new. Let’s take a look!”
Aside from our own crew’s cheers, nobody else really reacted—probably because, aside from rumors about me being some cinema-obsessed weirdo, most people here didn’t recognize my face.
I’d seen the final cut more times than I could count while editing, so I focused instead on the audience’s reactions. Right from the opening scene, they went silent. Hyo-seon’s phone call scene was so natural, and the screen projected a bright but eerie atmosphere. The frames all fit together beautifully, grabbing viewers’ attention.
Some folks snickered during Jae-hoon and Se-jin’s trashy banter in the middle. Then came the highlight: Hyo-seon hiding in the wardrobe, the flashlight beams slipping through the cracks—would she be discovered? I saw people clenching their fists, furrowing their brows in anticipation.
Finally, she escaped, and the film ended.
The theater was dead silent, as if nobody had emerged from the story yet. I heard only a few people quietly catching their breath.
“Holy crap.”
One guy, who recovered first, stood up and started clapping. He led the applause, and soon the theater erupted into loud cheers.
“Hey, Chanhyeon, I think you might’ve done something huge here. That reaction…,” Jun-seong said, grinning ear to ear, and gave my shoulder a pat.
“It’s nothing compared to the trouble I’ll cause down the road,” I joked.
“Pwahaha… you’re crazy.”
The applause continued for several minutes. When the lights came up, the MCs returned to the stage.
“What… just happened?”
“I’ve never seen a reaction like this before!”
“Everyone, did you enjoy Gyeong Chanhyeon’s <Woman in a Locked Room>?”
“Yes!”
The roar nearly shook the hall. I heard lots of excited murmuring about how quickly those 15 minutes had flown by.
“You all got ballots for the Popularity Award when you came in, right? Make sure to write down which film you enjoyed most today!”
After a while, staffers collected the voting slips. While the final results were tallied, the MCs tried to fill time with banter. Eventually, someone handed them a sealed envelope.
“All right, let’s announce the Cinematography Award first.”
That went to a movie called Parts. Okay, so that means I’m either in the running for the Popularity Award or the Ready-Go Award.
“Umm, so… this is unprecedented, but…”
The male MC looked a little flustered, glancing at the crowd.
“We have no choice but to announce the Popularity Award and the Ready-Go Award together.”
People started whispering among themselves.
“We generally try not to give more than one award to a single film, but…”
No way…
“All right, here’s the result. Popularity Award, Ready-Go Award…”
I swallowed hard.
“Gyeong Chanhyeon’s <Woman in a Locked Room>! Congratulations!”
“The professors say this film caused such an explosive reaction, it deserves special treatment.”
Though I was caught off guard, I slowly stood and made my way to the stage. The rest of my crew hollered:
“Gyeong Chanhyeon! You look handsome!”
“Who’s got that milky skin? Gyeong Chanhyeon!”
I winced but kind of smiled, which made Jun-seong shout:
“Ahhh! My heart! Gyeong Chanhyeon actually smiled!”
His dramatic cry got the entire audience laughing—everyone except Gwak Yeon-ji, who was glaring daggers.
“Let’s hear a few words, shall we?” the female MC said, handing me the mic.
I looked out at the crowd. They had all kinds of expressions but were staring right at me.
“First off… thank you so much to my team. My personality can be pretty twisted, but they put up with me. So I want to dedicate this honor to them.”
“And how does it feel to be the first in this festival’s history to receive both awards?”
“Kinda bummed it’s not three awards,” I joked. “Ha ha.”
I scratched the back of my head, acting embarrassed, and the audience burst into laughter.
“Just kidding. Once again, Woman in a Locked Room wasn’t made by me alone. All the staff poured their hearts into it, and that’s how we got such a fantastic final product. The actors, too.”
“Very modest!”
“Oh, well, yeah. I’m pretty humble,” I said, making the male MC chuckle.
After receiving the awards, I went back down to my seat amid another round of applause and cheers.
“Dude, did you have that acceptance speech ready or something?” Jun-seong asked as soon as I sat.
“Of course,” I said.
Once the ceremony ended, there was an after-party with all the students who submitted projects, plus the professors. Almost every conversation was about Woman in a Locked Room.
“Chanhyeon! Come here!”
I got called over by various professors who showered me with praise.
“Did you write this script yourself?”
“Have you considered graduate school?”
“Who taught you lighting?”
“You should try going to the Film Academy. It’s great for experience and networking.”
They all filled my glass with drinks, one after another. Even though I had zero intention of following any of their suggestions, I smiled and answered politely:
“Yeah, that would be amazing. Thank you so much for your kind words, Professor.”
This is just the beginning.
When this festival wraps, I plan to ask my dad—who runs a small theater—to screen my film for a while. He has a tiny auditorium that sometimes shows indie and student films on weekday afternoons when nobody comes. They only charge by the hour, 2,000 won per screening. Not a big moneymaker, but I’m not doing it for profit.
It’s just another marketing move, plain and simple.
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