I realized I couldn’t possibly see Kim Eun-ha home safely in her current state, so I suggested we have another drink at my place. Then I hailed a taxi and brought her and Jun-seong to my house.
Once we arrived, Kim Eun-ha immediately passed out in the taxi as well, so there was no need for further maneuvering. I dragged her into the spare room, then tossed Jun-seong onto the floor of my own room.
“Ugh… I’m gonna die.”
A quick glance at the clock showed that it was four in the morning.
Instead of lying down on my bed, I went to my desk and flipped open the notebooks where I’d sketched out ideas for the new movie—following through on the plan I’d just resolved to make.
I’d jotted down synopses for various masterpieces whenever they came to mind.
Truly iconic films have a reason for their greatness.
Simply copying them doesn’t mean you can replicate their artistry, because you can’t copy what is uniquely theirs.
“Ah, jeez…”
Artistic integrity or commercial viability.
It’s a dilemma that plagues every art form—film, music, painting, you name it.
But there are those who manage to fuse the two in a way that defines a whole style. In cinema, that’s Christopher Nolan, Ridley Scott, James Cameron, Bong Joon-ho.
Basically, most directors who make history pull off that balancing act.
As I’ve said, it’s extremely difficult. One misstep, and you end up with a total flop. And now that Seong-hyeon Productions has found stability thanks to Night, I couldn’t afford to drag it down.
I was wrestling with these thoughts when I heard some rustling behind me. Then Jun-seong’s voice:
“Where the heck… is this place?!”
He’d just sobered up a bit, blinking blearily while still lying down.
“This is my house. Shut up and go to sleep.”
“How’d we get here?”
“I dragged you, you maniac. It almost killed me.”
“So why aren’t you sleeping, dummy?”
“I’ve got stuff to do.”
Apparently having trouble dozing off, he tossed and turned behind me.
“Hey, Chan-hyeon.”
After calling my name, he just stared at the ceiling, saying nothing.
“What is it? Don’t just say my name and go silent, moron.”
“Is art… more important than money?”
“In that case, why’d you even come to film school? You should’ve majored in business.”
He let out a small laugh.
“I’ve said it before—if not for Cinema Paradiso, I’d have gone with business. That damned movie sucked me in…”
“You’re nuts.”
“And after studying more about film, I stopped noticing that kind of movie; it just seemed like they didn’t exist anymore.”
“They pretty much don’t.”
They used to exist, but they vanished—was what I wanted to say, but I swallowed the thought.
“So I ended up obsessed with money, figuring art had died out ages ago. There’s been nothing moving me since Cinema Paradiso.”
“I might not move your heart, but I can definitely clobber your head—how about that?”
“You lunatic. I’m being serious here, and you come at me with that crap? Unbelievable, man.”
He struggled upright, eyes hazy with drink, fixing his gaze on me.
“Make one,” he said.
“One what?”
“A film that’ll stomp all over Director Noh Young-hoon’s column. Show us the great ‘artistic side’ of Gyeong Chan-hyeon. And while you’re at it, move my heart, too. Make me feel those waves of emotion inside.”
He looked at me with bloodshot eyes.
“Uh…?”
It was like he could see right through me, giving me an immediate answer to the concerns I hadn’t spoken aloud.
“You want to, but you don’t because you’re afraid it won’t be a hit—and the company might go under. That sense of responsibility is stopping you from making the film you really want. Just do it.”
“…”
“Thanks to Night, we’ve got plenty in the bank now. If you fail, nobody’s gonna throw a fit. You can keep sighing and moaning about life, or you can go for it, you idiot.”
He took a deep breath, then spoke with renewed resolve.
“Actually, the more I think about it, the more it pisses me off.”
“…What?”
Reeking of alcohol, he staggered over to an empty chair next to me, eyes unfocused.
“You think I’m a pushover? You think our company might collapse if you bomb one time? We’re not gonna topple like a sandcastle just ‘cause one of your films flops. Don’t you trust your co-director? Huh?!”
“…”
“I’ve known you almost eight years now—and lived with you for two of those. You think I can’t figure you out? It’s obvious.”
“It’s just that—”
All of a sudden, tears welled in my eyes. Trying to hide them, I quickly wiped my sleeve across my face. But he noticed right away.
“Oh, come on, crybaby. Fine, go ahead—better than bottling it up, you moron.”
“…Thanks,” I murmured.
He was perched precariously on the edge of the chair, face a bit pale.
“Do me a favor, get me some water. I’m dying… too much talking… Hang on. Ugh…”
“What’s wrong?”
He went whiter.
“Urrgh.”
“Dude, not here—!”
Click.
I jumped up and opened the door. He scrambled to the bathroom and stuck his face into the toilet. I followed, patting his back.
With nothing in his stomach but alcohol, it was just liquid pouring out.
“Stop trying to act so cool. You’re literally making yourself sick here.”
“Stop making me laugh—it’s coming back up again…”
Amused despite myself, I kept on patting his back, touched by how lucky I was to have someone like him around.
“Hey, not so hard! You’ll yank my stomach right out!”
“I’m just worried, man.”
Smack! Smack!
“Easy! Aaaack!”
“Aw, my poor little Jun-seong. You hurting?”
“Stop making me laugh… Guh—”
Whack! Whack!
“Gahh…”
Finally, done puking, he flopped on the bathroom floor.
“Rinse out your mouth, you filthy animal.”
He gave me a wry grin.
“Ugh… perfect timing, huh? Right when I’m being all profound, my stomach decides to blow.”
The next morning, we woke up to find that Mom had made hangover soup. After eating, we got back to work.
Jun-seong was busy finding a solid production team for Kim Eun-ha’s new film, and she was nearly done with her script.
Buoyed by his words, I dove into the new movie plan. As soon as I got to the office each day, I’d sit by myself, pen in hand, scribbling away until something promising emerged.
Right from the start, it felt different from Night. That was basically a mash-up of every commercial cliché stuck in my head, whereas now, I was trying to create a film that was truly mine.
My film.
I felt more fear than excitement. Even though Jun-seong said it would be fine, I couldn’t just turn off my worries.
I looked at the Night poster hanging on the wall. Instead of pride, it gave me a twinge of anxiety.
What if I fail?
What if I make something worse than Night and get ripped apart?
What if everyone says I’m just a greedy director with no sense of artistry—then what happens to the film scene?
Why did the God of Cinema entrust me with all this?
Seeing the Night poster, my mind flooded with anxious what-ifs. I sighed.
When that happened, music was my best remedy—if there’s no immediate answer, better to clear my head and stop overthinking.
Once the song ended, I felt more refreshed. I picked up my pen again and wrote one word at the center of my notebook:
“Artistry.”
This short word can hold a multitude of meanings: concept, cinematography, editing—a film requires many artistic touches. But Noh Young-hoon wasn’t criticizing me for the lack of technical artistry—he was pointing out Night’s lack of a deeper message.
A message—essentially, a theme.
To find the answer, I had to decide what story I wanted to share.
Yet if I shoved that theme in the audience’s face, the movie would feel corny. Telling viewers “Do this, don’t do that” is practically a sin in cinema. The audience should be left to interpret on their own—acting like a teacher lecturing them is a kind of moral elitism, not what I want.
If the theme overshadows entertainment, you might as well make a documentary.
Consider Ridley Scott’s Alien, Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite, David Fincher’s Fight Club. All are fun on the surface, yet beneath that fun, you can interpret the director’s deeper message.
Just like the annotations and commentaries for famous classical literature, truly great films invite countless interpretations—though I exclude those incomprehensibly abstract art-house films. A single character can be read in many ways, or the same object can mean different things to different people.
Keeping these thoughts in mind, I started filling page after page of my notebook.
For the next few weeks, I focused on my script.
I wanted a story that would let the audience get immersed, while still embedding my own message. As I pondered, one concept came to me:
“Desire.”
There are many masterpieces about desire—from ancient myths down to Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite.
Look at the Trojan War, one of the highlights of Greek mythology. It broke out because of Paris’s desire to steal Helen. Or Parasite, where the main characters’ desire to climb the social ladder leads to tragedy.
It’s a well-worn but effective storyline: a person’s downfall through their own desire.
But real life is different. Desire is necessary, a powerful drive to keep us going. Yet there’s no shortage of proverbs painting desire as sinful.
“You call yourself an artist? You should keep your distance from money.”
What a reckless statement. Are artists supposed to starve?
Even worse, a lot of the people spouting that nonsense are the same ones who greedily protect their own interests.
“People who say they don’t care about money are exactly the ones who are obsessed with it.”
That saying feels far more honest.
They demonize others’ greed while excusing their own, acting like saints. They preach abstinence while never letting go of a single grain of their own rice, telling everyone else how to live.
If I can weave that idea into a movie…?
TN: Okay, this chapter made me miss my best friend T_T
Also, if you haven’t already— watch Cinema Paradiso (1988) because look at this: the foreground, background, shadows, light, perspective, movement, great soundtrack and the wonderfully spun storyyyy
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