After Jeong Jisu’s <Your Night> aired, Junsik was on screen whenever the TV was on.
TV producers showed interest in the drama of his life and tried to package him as an actor who had endured every hardship and ordeal, but Junsik kept his concept and repeated that he was an ordinary person.
And he always added one line after that.
‘ I’m just a regular actor. If I differ from other actors at all, it’s only… that I met Director Gyeong Chanhyeon.’
Because he praised me this way on every show, some viewers half‑jokingly worried that, like the lead in <Desirelessness> who falls for the Liberation Sect cult, he had fallen under my spell.
Thanks to this unintended noise marketing, <Desirelessness> kept adding viewers even at the very end of its run.
And at last it reached four million.
[Director Gyeong Chanhyeon breaks his own record with his next film.]
[A lone hero emerges from the wasteland of Korean cinema.]
Such headlines caught my eye.
Reading them, I felt relieved that I hadn’t lost commercial appeal, and I was pleased that a different atmosphere had formed compared to <Night>.
When people finished <Night> they simply thought it was fun, but <Desirelessness> was different.
Now not only critics but ordinary viewers said there was a hidden message in <Desirelessness> and tried to interpret it and trade opinions.
The prime example was Junseong himself.
“That Liberation Sect prison scene— that stray beam of light coming in, is that the longing for freedom?”
Normally he never cared about such things, yet he asked me.
“What’s this about, Lee Junseong looking at a film that way?”
“Hey, I majored in film too, you know.”
“But why ask that so late, at the tail end?”
Junseong stuck out his lip.
“My kid brother flew in yesterday, watched <Desirelessness>, and won’t stop talking about it. He’s never like that, but all I got was grief— ‘How can the producer not even know that?’ ”
“Should’ve guessed…”
“He keeps begging me to ask you. Says he wants the director’s intent.”
“Tell him I don’t know either.”
“Ah, then he’ll get mad!”
Junseong got up, came right in front of me, and pleaded.
“Come on, just tell me. Please!”
“How did you live six years apart if you’re going to be that close now?”
“I’m paying off karmic debt, okay? If I ignore him he’ll say I’m a worthless brother who ditched him for six years.”
“Then treat him well, genius.”
“I’m trying, and you’re blocking me! Just say—”
Ring ring!
“Quiet. Let me get this call.”
“So cold…”
Junseong flopped back into his chair, and I picked up.
—Director Gyeong Chanhyeon? Someone is here to see you.
“Yes? Who?”
—He says he’s Director No Younghun.
“Ah… what? Uh, please escort him to the meeting room. I’ll be right there.”
After hanging up, I straightened my clothes in the office mirror.
“Who’s here that you’re fussing like you’re off to a blind date?”
“Director No Younghun.”
“Huh? No Younghun came in person?”
“Yeah.”
Taken aback, Junseong stared blankly.
“That director’s famous for eccentricities— if he doesn’t like something he flips the table… He wrote that column, and now that <Desirelessness> is a hit maybe he came to slap you?”
“That’s a misunderstanding. He’s a good person.”
“Fine. If a slap flies it’s your cheek, not mine.”
Grumbling behind me, he followed as I headed to the meeting room.
Inside sat an elderly man radiating an unusual aura.
I took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped in.
“Hello, Director!”
He rose and smiled.
“Good to see you, Director Gyeong.”
Sitting down, I looked at him slowly.
He felt utterly different from the man I’d seen on TV.
On screen, Director No Younghun would strain the veins in his neck asserting his ideas about art.
Right now, he looked like a kindly grandfather in horn‑rimmed glasses.
After a few polite exchanges, he grew serious.
“I stopped by because there’s something I should apologize for… Thank you for meeting me like this.”
“Ah… ha‑ha, not at all.”
Studying me, he went on.
“No, I truly am sorry. I treated a debut director’s film so… so coldly without ever even seeing your face.”
“You must have written it out of love for cinema.”
“That’s just it… These days I’m not sure anymore— maybe age has blurred the line.”
He cleared his throat.
“After watching your <Desirelessness>, I reread my column. When I wrote it I swear I felt I was protecting Korean film… but reading it again I saw something else.”
“Sir?”
“I felt inferiority there. Ha‑ha. If a movie like your <Night> became the mainstream here… I, as a director, feared there’d be no place left for me. That fear shows—ha‑ha.”
Smiling, he gazed at me with wistful eyes.
“I watched <Desirelessness> several more times. It’s definitely… a film I could never make. Extraordinary.”
“You flatter me, Director.”
“No… Do you know what crossed my mind?”
“I’m not sure…”
“That I had almost committed a great sin against Korean cinema. You are the future of our film industry. I felt that clearly this time. No matter who says what, follow your own path, no matter what fools like me say.”
Hearing such praise from No Younghun—vice‑chair of the association and a celebrated art‑film director—was moving, yet seeing his self‑reproach I felt lost.
When I stayed silent, he kept sighing with genuine remorse.
Looking at his apologetic face, I felt a strange guilt.
Without his column, what would I be doing now?
Because <Night> succeeded I might have rushed off to shoot <Night 2>.
Or maybe cobbled together another film from purely commercial tropes.
Lost in thought, I said to him,
“<Desirelessness> was your lesson to me.”
“…?”
“After I made <Night>, I read your column amid the flood of copycats. Things really unfolded as you said— investors and distributors funded only gangster movies and ignored everything else. I didn’t want that.”
His brows lifted.
“I don’t want Korean cinema swung around by such narrow trends. That’s why <Desirelessness> exists—thanks to your column.”
He only blinked at me.
“So there’s no need to feel sorry. Because of you, I gained a valuable insight.”
“Ho‑ho… I thought you’d have the mindset of a young director, but it’s as if an old codger like me is living inside you.”
“Ha‑ha, thank you.”
“Hmm? Is that a compliment?”
“Because it means I’m like you, Director. Ha‑ha.”
At that he burst into his first hearty laugh, and I joined him.
“They say young directors hate me— hope you don’t end up hated too.”
“I dislike a lot of young directors these days myself.”
Surprised, he blinked.
Feeling I’d slipped, I added,
“Just kidding, ha‑ha.”
“Ha‑ha, let’s have a drink sometime. I’ve been wanting to share a glass with you—talk movies. Feels like I’ve met a good colleague for the first time in ages.”
“It would be an honor!”
Rising to go, he said,
“Oh, and <Desirelessness> clearing four million—congratulations in earnest. Only you could have done that. Truly, congratulations.”
“Th‑thank you. Ha‑ha…”
After a firm handshake he left.
I escorted him to the exit, then returned to the meeting room and exhaled.
“Whew…”
<Desirelessness> wrapped a little over four million admissions.
One‑and‑a‑half million more than <Night>. Even allowing for more screens, four million is a phenomenal figure here.
Although headlines trumpeted it, Director No Younghun’s words were worth far more.
Months hunched over the film had been acknowledged.
Having one of the art‑film directors I respect seek me out and praise me—
A smile crept over my lips, and I couldn’t hold back a quiet laugh.
“So I’m the future of Korean cinema…”
Knock knock.
Junseong entered, frowning at me laughing to myself.
“What, gone crazy? Why’re you grinning alone?”
“Because I’m happy.”
“Didn’t No Younghun give you grief?”
“Told you he’s not a bad guy.”
He glanced around, as if checking nothing was smashed.
“You took so long I got worried and came myself.”
“He said let’s grab a drink sometime. Says he feels he’s found a good colleague.”
“Colleague? Grandkid, more like.”
“Passion knows no age.”
After even checking the floor, he dropped into the seat opposite.
“Nothing’s broken. Going by what you see on TV and the rumors, I figured there’d be fireworks. He didn’t hit you?”
He leaned in, grabbing my face to check.
“Mhph…”
“Not a mark. Kinda disappointing he didn’t actually smack you…”
“You’re the one who needs hitting.”
He flopped back, stared at the white ceiling, and murmured.
“But how did you know <The Miracle of the Match Girl> would bomb?”
“Hmm?”
“It’s weird. Was that really just a hunch? I’ve thought about it…”
He sat up, peered at me, brow furrowed.
“You didn’t, like, come from the future or something?”
I felt saliva pool but didn’t swallow; he mustn’t sense my tension.
If I say I’m from the future… only hassles will multiply.
“That film… you still don’t have the eye.”
“What?”
“It uses game‑fantasy elements, right?”
“Yeah?”
“And the director’s in his fifties.”
“Right.”
I pressed on.
“How many people in their fifties truly understand games?”
I worked my brain— it wasn’t airtight logic, but I had to shake his suspicion.
“Ohh… but wait— yeah, that’s it.”
He suddenly smiled as if enlightened.
“Negative perception of games: games are inherently violent. They wove that in! Lines like ‘Wanna get whacked with jajangmyeon?’— suddenly pulling guns like in a game— right, depicting violence that confuses reality and games! That was what the director aimed for!”
“Look at you, growing after talking film with your brother.”
Forcing a smile, I watched him look back at me.
“What? Why the forced grin? Did you really come from the future?”
“Are you nuts? If I were, would I be directing movies? I’d be trading stocks and living it up.”
“Hmm… true enough. Makes sense.”
He studied me.
“Yeah, if you were from the future you’d just loaf around rich, not stress over films.”
“Exactly, genius. Your brain’s finally working.”
“Still feels odd, though…”
He kept eyeing me, suspicion not fully gone.
“If you were from the future… I was going to beg you to fix Kim Eunha’s movie…”
“What?”
“It’s an utter train wreck… one wrong move and the whole thing might get canned…”
What on earth is he talking about now…
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